


The Trident Flows Red

by DaceyRemembers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, F/F, F/M, Inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Parallels, Red Wedding, Side Story, Snark, Spoilers for Book 3 - A Storm of Swords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaceyRemembers/pseuds/DaceyRemembers
Summary: In the wake of the Red Wedding, the lives of the participants were forever changed, as were the lives of their families. Bryden Frey and Keira Rivers, two lowly members of a hated house in the Riverlands, look to stop the bleeding before it grows out of control. Meanwhile in the North, the surviving members of House Forrester find themselves embroiled in a feud with their old adversary, and the Iron Throne looks to make them bend the knee.In the great game, no two players are created equally.
Relationships: Asher Forrester/Gwyn Whitehill, Gared Tuttle/Sylvi, Keira Rivers/Camylla Glenmore, Mira Forrester/Sera Snow, Rodrik Forrester/Elaena Glenmore
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. The Journey Home

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is going to be based on a variety of sources. First and foremost, it follows the events after the Red Wedding in "A Storm of Swords" through the eyes of original characters. Secondly, parts of it are based off Telltale's Game of Thrones (2014), and is particularly inspired by an outline posted on the old forums before the company went under. You can view it here (MAJOR SPOILERS!).
> 
> https://community.telltale.com/discussion/122905/my-personal-rewrite-of-the-story
> 
> Major thanks to ByzantineLover for the inspiration, and if he ever reads this, I hope he knows he much he inspired me to write this.
> 
> While the game was based on the show's timeline, this story follows the book continuity, and blends the books with the Telltale game and my own ideas. So it's sort of AU, but not really in that regard. 
> 
> Warnings for bloody violence, adult language, nudity, and other unsavory themes.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll take time to comment and share your thoughts!

“My sweet son, I know we have not spoken in many a moon since you left, but I pray this letter finds its way to you. Something terrible has happened. I don’t know how to quite say this...the King in the North and thousands of his loyal bannermen were murdered at his uncle’s wedding, and it was by your lord uncle’s hand. They’re already calling it the ‘Red Wedding’, and that our house is now condemned in the eyes of gods and men. I know why you left, my son, but I beg you. Please come home. I fear for what will happen now. For all our sakes, for mine and your brothers and sister, please come home.

May the Seven guide you, my son.

Your mother.”

These were the words that Bryden Frey read mayhaps as many as a hundred times as the small vessel sailed across the Narrow Sea. He hadn’t been back in Westeros since before the War of the Five Kings broke out, and he certainly wasn’t enjoying the thought of returning. It was for the best, honestly. The Riverlands were torn asunder by all sides, be they Stark or Lannister, and House Frey had of course been dragged into the midst. Bryden’s father always said that whatever the conflict, no region was hit worse than the Riverlands. Sacked, rebuilt, sacked again. So it had been for many a season. Once it had been dragons, but the dragons had long since flown into the sun for the final time. Dragons or mounted knights, what was the difference? It all ends in fire and blood.

The cold winds were rising over the vessel, and the sea crashed all around it while the wind blew through Bryden’s tangled hair. Sun shone down on him like a girl’s smile. It was strangely peaceful, enough to get lost in. Bryden had come to Braavos to get away from all of the conniving and backstabbing that went on wherever you turned. In truth, the Free Cities weren’t far different from the great game that Westerosi nobles played. It just seemed kinder, like a dagger wrapped in velvet. At the very least, he hoped to go his own way, out from under the shadow of his vast family. Not like he’d ever be inheriting the Twins as it were. He was so far back in the line of succession that he could have grown a few centuries more and still been no closer. A Frey dies and the rest get hot over how that brings them ever close to the lordship itself. Even still, his father - Ser Myles - seemed to always treat Bryden as an afterthought. Paxtan and Drevyn were as close to an heir and a spare as they came, being so far down the line.

As Bryden looked out over the side, he took in the great Narrow Sea and thought from his vantage, the water seemed to go on and on forever. 

“Won’t be long now, ser,” a voice called out from behind him.

It was Nakaro, one of the crew of that small boat. A Braavosi, he hid a faint smile behind a dark, bushy beard.

“You don’t have to call me that,” was Bryden’s reply. "No need to be so bloody formal.”

The Braavosi climbed up next to him and peered out across the sea. In the distance, a great mass of stone mountain stood tall, climbing into the sky.

Nakaro spared a glance at Bryden and said, “So you still haven’t told me why a lord from Westeros was spending time in the Free Cities.”

Bryden felt his eyes roll, as if he were the sole Westerosi to venture across the Narrow Sea. “No, I haven’t.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between them. The boat still rocked from side to side, and the rush of water filled the air, but for the two men standing on the deck, not a word was exchanged. What had it mattered? Bryden hoped to prove that he could make his own fortune, and Braavos seemed the place where such fortunes were forged. Had he not received that letter, he felt the next score was the right one, that he had finally struck gold. Alas, it was never that simple.

“Is it true what they say?” Nakaro broke the silence. “A king killed at a wedding?”

Bryden should’ve guessed that this would come up.

“It would seem that way,” he replied, punctuating the sentence with a heavy sigh.

Nakaro shook his head and spat into the sea. “Butchers. The ‘Red Wedding’, they call it. I heard the blood ran red all through the Trident, it did.”

There were those two fucking words again. Had everyone heard the songs? _What am I saying? Of course they have! Those in Ibben will hear before long!_

“And in Braavos, they hold themselves above such…dishonorable means?”

The Braavosi sailor turned to Bryden, a grin creeping across his bearded mouth. “In Braavos, we kill with words and kindness. Not knives at a wedding!”

“Just wait until after the wedding, yeah?” Bryden asked, just a hint of merry in his voice.

“Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong. The magisters have...let’s just say they have their own special ways of resolving conflicts before they reach the battlefield.”

Bryden had heard all he had wished to know about such tactics while he was a guest in the city. He had heard the stories, those of a secret assassin’s guild whose reach was as far and wide as the Titan was tall. In Westeros, it inevitably always ended in battle, and never were the Riverlands spared. Myles Frey, whatever he thought about Uncle Walder, was ever a leal servant. He had hoped all his sons would aspire to be knights, but none did, and none less so than Bryden. Always one for books and songs rather than swords and shields, Myles seemed to grow tired of Bryden’s stubborn refusals and simply gave up, choosing to devote all of his time to Bryden’s older brothers. 

Bryden had hoped that maybe he’d make his fortune in the Free Cities and do his father proud...but it was never to be. Ser Myles fell at the Whispering Wood while fighting for the Young Wolf, Robb Stark. Bryden had cried, sunk himself into an abyss of drinking and taking milk of the poppy, and in his rage, damned the King in the North for this fucking war. And now, with the Red Wedding, it all mattered little and less. Why had his family committed one of the greatest sins imaginable by murdering their guests? For power? Out of anger? The questions tore through Bryden’s mind like a siren’s call. 

Nakaro seemed to sense Bryden’s unease. “Are you...going to be alright? You don’t exactly look very happy.”

Bryden shook his head and waved off the Braavosi. “It’s fine. Just...was thinking.” The sound of the sea helped with that, at least.

The other crew members yelled to each other, their words lost in the roar of the sea. Nakaro went to check on them, leaving Bryden to himself once again. The ship was to take him to Gulltown and then Nakaro would ferry him up the Trident to the Inn at the Crossroads, and from there it was a short horse ride to the Twins. And then...answers, hopefully. Keira, his cousin, had written to him often while she fought alongside Robb Stark. She had written much and more after the Red Wedding. He’d need to take ship to Gulltown, the letters said. White Harbor would be out of the question; the Ironborn had taken Moat Cailin in the North’s absence, and they’d have loved nothing more than to have either strung him up or attempted to ransom him back to his family, not that such would be successful. Bryden doubted very much that he was ever anywhere close to the back of Uncle Walder’s mind. 

He was to meet Keira at the Crossroads Inn. There, they’d share ale and revel in their victories, not that he’d have any to impart. It would be a welcome respite from the nagging questions that pulled at him in any case. 

The great stone mountain grew ever closer, and the thriving port of Gulltown loomed on the horizon. Butterflies ate at Bryden’s stomach, chewing ever more the closer the ship came to port.

“There she is!” Nakaro shouted. “Not as grand as King’s Landing or Oldtown, but not a bad place to spend the night, get some company.” He smiled and let out a burst of laughter.

“Home…” said Bryden as he peered off into the great expanse of the Vale.

Home was not welcoming him. 

They had spent the night in Gulltown, drinking sweet Arbor Red and frolicking with the maidens. Nakaro took the revelries with more heart than Bryden, whom still had his eyes for another. He couldn’t forget her face, the way she danced...there would be no women for him that night, but wine and song a plenty. As the bards played and Nakaro danced with his latest pursuit, Bryden felt he may have drank too much, as he could no longer hear the slurred words of the barmaid. It sounded as if she said something about a king…

On the morrow, they took a canoe up the Trident towards the Green Fork, the trees gently rolling by. More did than that. Burning homes and farms were easily visible from the river, more innocent lives caught up in another war that the great lords saw fit to make. 

“Say what you may about the Seven Kingdoms, but it’s a beautiful country here,” said Nakaro as he paddled the canoe.

Bryden looked off into the distance, ever down the stream. “One that’s so often despoiled by families like mine.”

Nakaro sighed. “A maid does need deflowering,” he said.

_Would any maid care to be deflowered as the Riverlands have been?_

The canoe rolled up to the shoreline; the Inn at the Crossroads stood in the distance, its white stone chimneys calling to him.

“And this is where we part,” said Nakaro as he slowed the canoe to a stop. “Been a great joy having your company, Bryden.”

“Yours as well,” said Bryden as he stood up and reached for his purse. “As promised.”

He handed the coin to Nakaro; the sailor took it and bit down on one of the stags.

“I assure you, it’s all sound.”

Nakaro laughed lustily. “I know you’re good for it! Just a habit I need to break.”

Stepping off the canoe and onto the shore, he took in the great Westerosi countryside. Breathing in the air, he could faintly smell sweet wines and smoke.

Bidding farewell to his ferryman, Bryden set ashore and began the short walk to the inn. He wondered if his cousin Alesander was involved in that slaughter; it would have shattered Bryden’s heart if he were. His sister Alyx as well, and sweet Roslin, undeserving of such a terrible family. 

He didn’t dwell on his thoughts for long. The sounds of leaves rustling came from behind, and then he was face down on the grass. It felt as if he could throw forth all of that sweet red.

“This the one, ser?” a voice came from above and behind him.

A boot pressed into the side of Bryden’s coat and kicked him onto his back. It belonged to a man with fiery hair and icey eyes.

He looked over Bryden, back and forth those chips of ice went. “Travelling alone, returned from east...yeah, looks like we found ourselves a Frey.”

This was not the welcome he had hoped for. Two men, one heavy and balding and one shorter and with tangled hair, picked him up by the arms and dragged him through the trees before tossing him onto an embankment next to the flowing Trident. Everything was a blur. He looked up at the men towering over him - there were three in total, clad in wool armor, all with bloodlust in their eyes and wide smiles on their lips.

“Thought ye’d slip on by, did ye?” 

A pair of hands big enough to crush his head without thought careened into Bryden's face, one after the other. The copper taste of blood started forming on his tongue.

“Ye thought ye'd just slip on by Frey, but we knew ye we’re comin’!” came the voice that the hands belonged to. 

Bryden spat out blood from where the big man had wracked his hands across his face. “Frey? What...what the fuck are you going on about?”

Another man kicked him hard in the stomach, and Bryden let out a loud groan.

“Don’t fuckin’ play dumb now, arsehole!” the man cautioned. He was smaller than the first man, a messy tangle of hair atop his head, but no less bloodthirsty.

Had Bryden been so obvious? His family hadn’t the weasel look that those sired by Walder were cursed with, so what could’ve given him away?

The third man, lean and sporting a dark red beard, stood calmly over Bryden, clutching a piece of parchment.

_Seven hells._

A smile curved around the lean man’s face. “Frey. That’s what you are. Old Lord Walder’s nephew.”

Bryden’s heart pounded to and fro, and it was all he could hear amidst the stillness of the river and the trees.

Finally, he found the courage to speak. “You just...knew I was a Frey before you grabbed me, yeah? You got fucking greenblood?” Bryden grinned a bloody smile. _Pissing off people who want to see you bloodless is always a great idea._

The man with the tangled hair put his foot in Bryden’s stomach once again and yelled, “Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, Frey!”

“Chass…” said the red-haired man, calmly but with a hidden menace. 

The tangle-haired man glared at his superior, but said not a word.

Kneeling down to meet Bryden, the leader of the group waved the parchment and said, “You picked a bad time to come home to Westeros, Frey. A very, very bad time indeed. What your family did was...most dishonorable, and few in these parts are pleased with you. So, they hear one of old Walder’s kin is coming for a pint and, well, they just may let it slip to us.”

Bryden stared off into the ever-dimming sky and then closed his eyes. Who could possibly have known of his arrival? Keira, and...who else?

“I say we string up the bastard here and now,” the heavyset man broke in. “Leave ‘im hangin’ from the trees as a warnin’ to all the rest of his craven kin!” And with that, he delivered a backhand across Bryden’s face. He saw nought but stars as the pain shot through him.

Chass, he of the tangled hair, seemed beside himself. “I got a better idea! We send word to the Twins, see? Tell ‘im we got one a’ their’s, and we’ll send his head to them if they don’t pay up! So more a’ them come out, and then…”

“Chass! Enough!” said the leader, raising his voice above the usual near-whisper. “He’s a nephew. You really think Walder gives two shits about this one?”

It was certainly true enough.

“Come now, Trentan. What else we gonna do wit’ ‘im?” asked the big man, his massive hand gesturing to where Bryden lay. “He’s a Frey, he’s gotta be butchered like he did to Stark!”

“I didn’t have...a fucking thing to do with that!” Bryden spat out. 

He well remembered how much he enjoyed his cousins’ company. Ryman, that fat sot, his hateful sons Edwyn and Black Walder, that smirking fool Rhaegar, Merrett Muttonhead, Lame Lothar, Emmon and Jared, and above all of them, his Grand-Uncle Walder. No family deserved each other more than the lot of them.

“Fuckin’ weasel shit!” the big man rounded on Bryden again, who braced himself for another beating, covering his eyes as if that would be of use.

Trentan, the red-haired man, grabbed his large accomplice by the shoulder. “No more of this. He has to face his own judgment.”

The big man shoved Trentan’s hand off him. “What do ye care for? We have ‘im, let’s hang ‘im and be done with it!”

Chass nodded his head, his nostrils flaring and a smile slowly forming.

“No,” said Trentan as he shook his head. “The Lady would want to judge this one for herself.” He stared at Bryden, his eyes cold chips of ice. “Mayhaps you are as innocent as you say. But it’s not for any of us to decide.”

He turned to the other two men. “Wes, Chass, get him tied up and ready to move. We can’t stay here long.”

A twig snapped somewhere in the great meadow, and leaves crunched under foot. For not but a second, Bryden could see a flash of honey blonde hair.

“Don’ know why you care,” said Wes. “He’s dead either way--”

He didn’t finish that sentence. A soft hum filled the air and an arrow stuck out from the big man’s throat. Gurgling blood, as he made to feel the long shaft, his eyes glazed over and he fell to the ground with a loud crash; leaves scattered all around. Chass quickly turned to face where the arrow came from, but another took him through the eye and caused his head to snap back with a sickening crunch. Trentan drew his sword, but an arrow pierced through his chest and he sunk to his knees, the sword dangling from his shaking hand. 

A tall woman, pale and holding a bow, stood in front of him. She quickly nocked another shaft and aimed it at Trentan’s heart. As the red-haired man spat blood, he tried to get a word out, but the arrow flew through his chest and punched through the back of his cloth armor. The sword fell from his grip and his lifeless body collapsed to the meadow ground.

“Bryden?” the woman called out as she lowered the bow. “Bryden!”

She ran towards him in a mad sprint. Leaning down, she asked, “Gods, what have they done to you?”

Bryden spat out a gob of blood, splattering the leaves. “Trying to...hunt down every Frey they find, it seems.” He panted heavily and looked into her blue eyes. “Keira, thank you. Thank you so much. I owe you more than you know.”

“No you don’t,” she said sweetly, and helped lift him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

He groaned in pain. “I will. It’s fine.”

“Fine? You look like shit, cous!” 

Stopping over Trentan’s body, Bryden leaned down to take the letter they had stolen from him, and then spat another wad of blood onto the bloodless man’s body.

Keira helped him walk through the meadow, the sound of leaves crunching where they went.

“I looked all over for you,” she said. “You weren’t at the inn, so I...Gods, I’m just happy I found you.”

“Me too. Did you still want to get that pint?”

She looked at him sourly. “Are you daft? We need to get you home. Come on, I’ve got us some horses.”

They walked through the meadow, the sky ever darkening, until they came upon the Inn at the Crossroads. Standing three stories tall with stone chimneys jutting upwards, it looked like a far better welcome than the one he had just received. A pair of horses were saddled outside, one brown and white, one white and gray. They kicked up dirt and calmly ate the grass from underneath.

“No sense in going in there right now anyway,” said Keira. “It’s a right fucking mess. Someone got in a fight earlier.”

Bryden climbed onto the back of the white and gray mount and gave it a pat on the head. Keira did likewise for her’s. 

“Let’s get you home, cous.”

They set off down the Kingsroad. Anywhere was better than there at the moment.

Keira looked pensive as she rode. The sun beautifully illuminated her pale face. “Bryden, I know you just got back, and you’ve had a lot thrown at you, but…”

“What?” He sensed that she wasn’t going to tell him that there was a pot of gold at the end of the road. “Keira, what is it? You can tell me.”

She closed her eyes and exhaled. “The king is dead.”

The words seemed to echo. Bryden said nothing, couldn’t say anything. His mouth formed words but none came.

“Poisoned at his wedding. Little shit deserved it honestly, but…”

“More war,” Bryden said, almost a whisper.

She shook her head. “Looks that way, doesn’t it? I don’t know what’s going to happen, but…” She looked off into the distance, away from the blinding sun. “The blood hasn’t finished running. Not yet.”

“It never will.”

\---

  
ROYAL PROCLAMATION!

300 AC

In the name of King Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, the crown is in search of any information concerning the whereabouts of the fugitive, Sansa Stark, for her part in the murder of our beloved king, Joffrey I. Stark fled the royal wedding in King’s Landing where Joffrey was wed to Lady Margaery Tyrell, shortly before the king was murdered. She is believed to have been assisted in this terrible tragedy by her husband, Tyrion Lannister, who was captured before he could take flight. Stark is the younger sister of Robb Stark, the pretender King in the North and traitor to the realm who was finally put down less than a moon before in a heroic battle at the Crossing in the Riverlands.

The crown is offering a reward of 1,000 gold dragons, along with generous offers of titles and land, for any who can help bring this treacherous fugitive to justice. Stark is red of hair with a tall frame, pale skin, and a pronounced Northern accent. She is believed to be within the vicinity of the Crownlands and possibly travelling north. Let it be known that Sansa of House Stark is declared an enemy to the realm and of gods and men. Her treasonous acts have endangered the safety of all in the Seven Kingdoms.


	2. A Drop of Red Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bryden still worked on his next score, loyal men and women of the North fought for the Young Wolf. They all gather for a special celebration before their march back home to drive out the Ironborn...

A _Fortnight Past_

The camps were alive with music and dancing. Men sworn to houses far and wide across the North and Riverlands drank and feasted. Musicians played their instruments strangely off-key but few were sober enough to care. The likes of _Alysanne_ and _Jenny’s Song_ bounced back and forth between the canvas that seemed to stretch on for a thousand miles, and bright torches illuminated the sky.

Gared Tuttle cleaned the blood off Rhaenys, the ancestral Forrester greatsword, while the other men of House Forrester outside Lord Gregor’s tent drank the moon away.

“Jaime Lannister!” Norren Slate, a burly member of Gregor’s personal guard, led the men in revelry. “So high and mighty he was, and how the mighty ever fall!”

“Gods be good, what have you to add to this tale now, Norren?” asked Thermund Branch, Sentinel to Lord Gregor.

Norren poured his large mug of ale down his throat and wiped his mouth. “How ‘bout you shut your bloody mouth so I can tell you?” He replied, his tone one of slight embarrassment. 

Bowen, Norren’s lanky squire, joined Gared with a mug of his own. “Seven bloody hells, this again?”

Gared chuckled. “I think it’s great, watching it grow every time,” he said wryly, laying the sword back in its sheath before pouring a mug of ale.

“Says you. You’re not the one who has to listen to him all hours of the fucking moon.”

Norren was on his feet now, hopping back and forth as the flames from the campfire licked at his bearded face. “So there I was, near twenty Lannisters around me, and the Kingslayer leading the charge. Those Karstark boys couldn’t be saved, but all I could see was red as I cut through the lot of ‘em!”

Sweet Brandon Grayson, the captain of the Forrester guards, cut in. “Twenty? Bloody hell, I think you imagined an extra ten men from last time!”

“And before that, only five men!” added Thermund.

The Forrester men rose up in laughter; Bowen’s could be heard as far as the Trident. Gared tried his hardest to stifle the merry he felt.

Norren’s face turned sour, and he glared at Thermund and Brandon. “You two pups questioning my honor?”

“Just your tales, Norren!” Thermund said with a wave of his hands. “You tell the story differently every time!”

“Mayhaps he’s had too much to drink?” Brandon suggested.

“You shits…” Norren started. “Questioning my honor!”

The flap of Lord Gregor’s tent opened, and in the moonlight the great Lord of Ironrath stood tall, the white ironbark tree and inverted sword emblazoned on his cloth. The men drinking grew quiet as he appeared.

Admiring the greatsword, he then turned to Gared. “Thank you, Gared. Now enjoy yourself, this is a party.” He poured a mug for himself and paced around the campfire. “Norren, your family has faithfully served House Forrester for generations. The Starks and Tullys are forever in your debt. Let it be said that no man questions his honor!” 

No man dared make a sound. Gregor Forrester was not a hard-looking man, and indeed looked the type you’d happily drink with. But his once rich dark hair now had streaks of gray, and he seemed as if he bore witness to half a hundred battles, giving his face a very weary appearance. 

Gregor looked around his men, at their wide faces, before smiling. “Lord Edmure can tell his grandchildren that he never saw such a queer sight as when the Kingslayer dragged poor Norren across the battlefield!” 

The lord burst into laughter, and the men of his house joined him. Even Norren was full of joy. Gregor then beckoned to Gared, and the squire followed his lord.

“I trust you’re enjoying yourself, Gared?” asked Lord Forrester. 

Gared was apprehensive, and took a drink from his mug while searching for an answer. “Just being vigilant, my lord.”

“Oh, bugger that. This is a celebration. After all you’ve done, you’ve earned the right to not worry,” Gregor said as he put his arm around Gared’s shoulder.

The two walked past the Forrester camp in no great haste. Men still drank and danced under a host of banners - the bear of House Mormont, the ravens of House Blackwood, the huntress of House Glenmore, and flying high above all of them were the trout of House Tully and the graceful direwolf of House Stark. The mailed fist belonging to their liege lords, the Glovers, flapped in the wind a short distance from them, and in the opposite direction, Gared spied a most familiar sight - the barren hill and stars of House Whitehill. There weren’t many of that lot there; Lord Ludd had held back most of his forces during the war. He claimed it was out of a desire to protect the smallfolk from the likes of wildlings and Ironborn. Mayhaps he was justified in that, given what happened to Winterfell and Deepwood Motte, but Gared suspected that was far from the only reason for Ludd’s apprehension. Lord Gregor was all too happy to keep his camp out of striking distance; unity was needed now more than ever, he said, no matter what their past differences were. No sense in men from the two houses getting into drunken brawls.

Gared and Gregor walked along the wet grass, mud coating their boots. It was no longer the torrential downpour that had harried the Northmen for many a moon, but the wind still blew mist into their faces.

“We do have the morrow to think on, however,” said Gregor, contemplatively. “We’re going back home, yet we’re not welcome. We still have a long fight ahead of us.”

What had happened to the war for Northern independence? It felt so long since they had made any real progress. While once the battles of Whispering Wood and Oxcross emboldened their cause, they now felt a distant memory. The war seemed to be turning for the Iron Throne in the past year with the victories in the south; Stannis Baratheon’s fleet burned at the bottom of Blackwater Bay, and a third of the Northern host under Roose Bolton were slain at Duskendale. To the north, the Ironborn grew bold and chose to strike while the iron was hot. Winterfell had fallen to the Greyjoys, and sacked thereafter. Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square, Moat Cailin...victory felt farther and farther away. But the Young Wolf vowed to fight on, that once the North was liberated from the Ironborn, nothing would stand in their way.

Gregor’s eyes were focused ahead of them. “I believe in our king, with all of my heart. I know we can still win this, but we need more like you with us.”

Gared’s ears pricked right up at that. “My lord…”

“What do you wish to do, Gared? Please, be honest.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want to fight for you, my Lord. More than anything else, I want to fight. For you and for King Robb.”

Gregor stopped and moved in front of the squire, his hand still on Gared’s shoulder. “Then it shall be done. When we march tomorrow, I want you with me and Rodrik in the vanguard. Not as a squire, but as a warrior.”

A blending of emotions stirred inside Gared. It was all he had dreamed of, since his days of working on his family’s farm. His uncle Duncan had risen above his station to become Castellan of Ironrath, but Gared would never imagine that Lord Forrester would call on him to fight for the North.

“My lord, I...I don’t…” Gared started.

Gregor smiled and patted Gared on the back. “You don’t have to say anything. Your courage tomorrow will be enough thanks.”

Gared felt light, as if he’d be lifted off his feet at any moment. He didn’t ever want to leave…

“Oh! Hold up a while!” a familiar voice called to them.

They turned to face it. Striding towards them were two Northmen wearing heavy furs and carrying sheathed axes.

An irritated look grew over Gregor’s face. “Torrhen,” he said curtly.

Torrhen Whitehill curtsied. “Lord Forrester.”

“You have business with us?”

“Just wanted to make peace,” said Torrhen, wearing an expression of yearning. “It’s been an honor fighting with you, and whatever differences we may have had and still have, we are men of the North and none can take that away from us.”

Lord Gregor let out a chuckle as he looked over Torrhen. “For truth?” He sounded unconvinced. 

Rolland, Torrhen’s cousin, rolled his eyes. “Someone clearly doesn’t know what a compliment is.”

“So you say,” as Gregor’s face grew red, Gared felt his hand go to his dirk. “And here I have been saying the very same, though only now you think to come under a banner of peace?”

Torrhen put one hand up, and put the other over his chest. “Our families have fought for Gods only know how long, but I know it always needn't be so. After tonight, I believe we’ll have peace for all.”

The Lord of Ironrath looked Torrhen up and down, his dark eyes looking for any signs of a jape. “And your lord father wants peace?”

“It’s all he desires, Lord Forrester. He knows the fighting must come to a close if we are to thrive,” said Torrhen as he ran a hand through long, blonde hair.

The heavy furs worn by the two Whitehills felt out of place to Gared, as if they were all ready to march at once. Glancing over at the camps in front of them, Gared witnessed more Northmen in furs, wearing the hill and stars of the Whitehills, the sun of the Karstarks, and the flayed man of the Boltons. Much of the Karstark host had deserted after the Young Wolf lopped off their lord’s head, but a few who were loyal remained. 

Gared suddenly felt a shadow wash over him.

“Are the Whitehills keen on teaching us to dance?” Rodrik Forrester stood over Gared, his eyes glaring at Torrhen.

“Rodrik!” exclaimed Torrhen. “We were just…”

“Leaving.” Rodrik stood even taller than his father, with a beard of equal length and shoulder-length hair of the same color.

Rolland Whitehill stepped forward; he was a good foot shorter than Rodrik, and had to look up in order to meet Rodrik’s eyes. “And what’s it to you? Gonna make us?”

“Really, cous, there’s no need for…” Torrhen tried to intervene.

“And why are you dressed like that?” Rodrik demanded. “What are you up to, Whitehill?”

His voice climbing, Rolland said, “Going to the wedding, if you’re that curious.”

Gregor shot a glance at Rodrik, who eased off. 

Torrhen stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the muddy grass. “Lord Bolton wishes us to be there when the presents are given. I know we haven’t all been in the field like you Forresters, but that’s going to change,” his voice was even and calm.

Rodrik scoffed. “Truly?” he said. “Right now you lot have a change of heart?”

Rolland started to speak, but Torrhen pulled him back. “Ironborn running around our homes, raping our women...they need to be shown their place. I think we can all agree on that, at the least.”

In the great eastern castle that stood towering over the Green Fork, music emanated from inside the walls. Like the bards in the camps, it sounded off, almost like a troupe of untrained mummers. Gared had paid little mind to the songs, but a nagging feeling gnawed at him, like so many suckling leeches.

Torrhen turned to face the other fur-clad Northmen and said, “We must be off. I hope to see you all on the morn.”

“Do be sure and enjoy the wine,” said Rolland as they turned to leave.

“Bloody Whitehills,” Rodrik spat onto the muddy grass. “Even their gods are false.”

“In such times as these, son, we must unite against common foes,” said Gregor, his face heavy with wear. 

Rodrik glanced around at the camps. “I don’t like this, father. Where are Lord Glenmore’s men? There are so few here.”

“Feeling a touch horny before the battle, Rodrik?” asked Gared with a sly smile.

The tall warrior stared grimly at Gared, his eyes flush with embarrassment. But then he broke into laughter. “Oh, you know me, Gared. Always a dance before war.”

Elaena Glenmore was doubtless on Rodrik’s mind; Rillwater Crossing seemed so far, and House Ryswell hadn’t so many of their bannermen on the field as the other houses. The huntress flew along with the direwolves and trouts, but they made up but a fraction of the Northern host.

“Rodrik, Gared,” said Lord Gregor. “Please join me.”

The trio made their way back to the Forrester camp, and Lord Forrester called the men’s attention.

“Tonight, men, we celebrate! Drink, feast, dance, sing!” he declared to cheers. “But tomorrow, we march back home to drive out those godless reavers, and our house will ride at the Young Wolf’s vanguard!”

The men erupted into raucous applause. 

"To the bastard on the Iron Throne and his Lannister lapdogs, on the days of your deaths we shall drink and sing!” shouted Thermund.

Norren rose up. “And to those rapers and reavers from Pyke, we’ll mount your king’s head on our wall!”

“And to all our foes,” Rodrik said. “Let it be spoken…”

“The North remembers!” shouted Gared triumphantly.

Gregor raised his mug to the sky. “Iron from ice!”

Drunken cheers went up everywhere, and the men broke into song. _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._

Norren took another drink from his mug, but found that nothing flowed. “Bloody hell...Bowen!” he shouted. “More wine!”

Dismissively, Bowen grabbed a keg of empty wine and hoisted it up. “Care to give me a hand, your grace?” he said to Gared. 

Gared took a drink and said, “I don’t know...you care to make it up to me?”

Bowen smiled sheepishly. “Come on, you know I’m good for it,” he said.

Bending over to pick up another empty keg, Gared followed Bowen out of the camp. He exchanged a glance with Lord Forrester on the way, the lord’s eyes beaming. They walked across the mud-stained grass, their boots squelching as they did. Still more banners flew in the wind. Reed, Mallister, Flint, Westerling, Mooton...and the twin castles of the Freys. 

Bowen was muttering to himself. “Clean my armor, fetch more wine, wipe me arse…”

“You expected any different?” asked Gared.

“Oh, yes indeed. I hoped to bathe in the blood of my enemies while maidens fought for the pleasure of my company.”

“Gods, Bowen, don’t be such an arse.”

Snorting, Bowen said, “You get to ride with the lord while I’m stuck with Norren’s fat arse. At Whispering Wood, when the battle started, he was so drunk that he came out of his tent half-naked, a girl wearing little and less still sucking on him.”

Gared flashed a broad grin. “So he _didn’t_ capture the Kingslayer, I take it? You wouldn’t be questioning Norren’s honor now, would you?”

He and Bowen broke out in laughter. Gared wished to tell Bowen that he’d be fighting and not squiring on the morrow, but he knew that Lord Forrester wouldn’t be pleased with him if he did so. _Everyone must unite._

They came upon a trio of grand feast tents, where lords and knights ate mutton and lamb. More singers still played songs, and men made their way to a nearby tent to get their fill of Arbor Red. And beyond all of them, the gatehouse lay, its portcullis lit by a row of torches. It guarded the way to a large castle that stood over the Trident. And from inside, the sounds of music and laughter.

Gared stopped and turned to Bowen. “I know this isn’t the Kingsguard, but give it time, Bowen. You’ll get to fight. Lord Forrester knows who he can depend on.”

“Says you,” said Bowen with a sigh. “Mayhaps I’ll be lucky and Norren will have his head taken off by some reaver’s axe tomorrow.”

They strode to the tent and put their kegs on the large table outside, where massive tanks of wine and ale lined up side by side. As they filled the empty kegs, Gared took note of a stone-faced man with long dark hair and wearing the dual towers of House Frey on his coat glaring at them from the side. His eyes were cold and humorless, and they never left the two squires. 

Bowen must have noticed, as well, for he stopped filling the keg and stared straight back at the man. “You want a date, Frey?”

A smirk grew on the Frey’s face. “You lot have drunk enough tonight for the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Lucky for you, my uncle is such a generous soul. He does so hope you enjoy your gifts.”

_Gifts. Presents seem to be a running theme tonight._

Past the gatehouse, Gared saw a tall man, taller than any he had ever seen, wearing a cowl and riding a black courser. A dark figure hunched on the courser’s back, and the horse strode side to side in an unnatural manner. A group of Frey men-at-arms were pacing towards the gatehouse, led by an overweight man with greasy hair and a weasel face. At the great feast tables, two men Gared took to be Ser Walder Rivers and Ser Donnel Haigh sat with swords laid across their laps, not drinking or feasting, but anxiously glancing about. 

Another man with the Frey sigil walked up to the tent. “Come on, cous. Let these boys have a drink.”

The stone-faced man shot a look to his cousin, before turning to face the squires once more.

The second man, Gared recognized as Ronel Rivers, one of Lord Walder’s many bastard sons. He wore a smile and kind eyes, and his stance suggested a lack of worry. “Sorry ‘bout that, boys. Drevyn here is very anxious to get on with the battle. He’s never been one for lavish celebration.”

“Oh, I imagine I’ll have my fill of battle sure enough,” said Drevyn as he stared off into the distance. “But _cous,_ we must really be going, don’t you agree?”

Ronel nodded and said, “Right you are. Gods, what a lovely wedding! I’ve never seen any quite like it!”

The two Freys turned their heels and strode off. “This one will be forever remembered,” Gared heard Drevyn say.

Bowen kicked the table so hard that mugs of wine sloshed around before turning over on their sides and splashing their contents on the grass. “Fucking Freys!”

Gared could feel the rush of his heart. _Presents, sweet words._ His eyes followed a Frey man walking into a tent to his left, and for nought but a second, another man-at-arms worked on a crossbow within. Freeriders were visible in the distance, bearing down on the camps. And from within the great castle, the song played. Gared knew it well.

 _And who are you, the proud lord said?_ Gared turned back to the feast tents; Ser Walder and Ser Donnel were now standing, and clutched their swords tightly as they peered back at the castle. _That I must bow so low?_

“Gared?” the words were distant. “Gared! What’s gotten into you?” 

_Only a cat of a different coat, that’s all the truth I know._

Behind them, Ser Jammos Frey approached with a group of men-at-arms. They advanced on the two squires, their hands reaching for their hilts.

“For fuck’s sake, Gared! Where’s your head at?”

Without thinking, Gared pulled Bowen’s arm and hastened his fellow squire to follow him. Bowen shouted out a protest, but Gared quieted him. 

“Fucking hell, Gared!” Bowen shouted loud enough for all in the camps to hear. “Would you slow down?”

Gared did not slow down, not for even a second. _In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws._ Ser Jammos and his men still followed, but distance had been put between them.

“We have to warn the others!” said Gared, trying to keep his voice a whisper. “Before it’s too late!”

Bowen sighed. “Warn them of what? That Norren’s an unreliable sot?” he said with a shake of his head.

Gared reached his limit. “Bowen, shut the fuck up for a second and listen to me!” Bowen jumped back, his eyes wide. 

_And mine are long, and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours._

Screams broke out from within the camps, and Gared turned to face the great feast tents. One had collapsed and was soon set on fire. Men came running out, only to meet Frey steel and arrows. Gared and Bowen broke off in opposite directions, but to where? Anywhere was preferable to the den of fire and blood that rose up everywhere. Gared ran, as fast as he could, and his feet could find no balance. He tripped, falling to the grass and getting stained with mud and water. All of the feast tents were now aflame, and Freys were putting all to the sword. Ser Walder Rivers led a host of Frey men-at-arms as he ran his sword through Lord Elliver. The musicians’ lutes and drums were now swords and bows; arrows took men from Houses Bracken, Piper, and Grayson. Men were cut down before they could even rise, and many still clutched mugs, forks, spoons, and legs of lamb and mutton. 

Gared tried to stand, but a horse ran circles round him, and the rider buried his foot into the squire’s chest, sending him back into the mud. The horse rounded on Gared once more and the rider unsheathed an axe, the moon dancing off its steel. Gared reached for the dirk he always kept at his side, but the rider raised his axe to the sky. He did not even notice the huge man bearing down on him before sinking his sword through the rider’s shoulder. 

The rider let out an ear-piercing wail and the axe fell from his hand. The tall man who swung the sword brought it down again, but missed the rider and drove his sword through the horse’s neck. The horse screamed and rose up, bucking the rider off and sending him face first into a large puddle of water, before the horse too fell, crashing straight on top of its rider.

“Go on, boy! Run!” the tall man shouted. His face, illuminated by the raging fires, was badly scarred on one side. “You dumb bastard, run! Go!”

The man picked up the rider’s axe and rode towards the gatehouse, where what looked to be a child was being circled by another rider. Gared turned away and jumped to his feet. He ran and ran, ran as fast as he could back to the Forrester camp. Fighting raged on all around him as the Freys slaughtered loyal Northmen and Rivermen by the dozens. Fires burned so high that one could’ve witnessed them from the Wall. _Seven hells_ _take you, Walder Frey, you treacherous shit!_ The fighting was so thick and fierce that Gared struggled to find a clear path back to camp. If he stayed on the outskirts, he thought he could’ve avoided all of it…

"Stop, boy!” a deep voice called from his right.

Gared was tackled to the ground, his face forced into the mud. The man holding him was far stronger, and Gared could only kick and scream. The dirk was still hanging from Gared’s trousers. It was all he could do to get free…quickly, he unsheathed the dirk and swung wildly until he heard a scream, and his attacker released his iron grip. Gared rolled onto his back to face up, and shoved the dirk through the man’s throat before he could bring his hands down on him again. Blood dripped onto Gared’s face from the gaping neck wound, and the man clawed at his throat while gurgling blood. It was too much; the man fell dead at Gared’s side.

Such a blur was it all that it took a moment for Gared to closely look at his would-be killer. He was clad in furs... _A Northman!_ He wore the flayed man of House Bolton on his coat. _Why? Why?_ Gared picked up the dead man’s axe and ran. Wherever he looked, Boltons, Karstarks, and Whitehills worked in tandem with the Freys to slaughter all those loyal to the Young Wolf. There was truly no hope now. Gared saw Cregan Karstark gutting Liram Brownbarrow with an axe, while a soldier wearing the flayed man drove his sword through Jacaerys Grayson’s head with such force that it nearly took it clean off. Elsewhere, Drevyn Frey plunged his sword through the throat of Ashton Mallister while a younger man wearing the twin serpents of House Paege drove his dagger through the throat of Simon Chambers, and Ser Donnel Haigh and Ronel Rivers surrounded a bloodied man wearing the Glenmore huntress and stabbed him over and over as he tried to crawl away.

There were few shadows to mask Gared’s flight; the fires saw to that. Behind a growing column of flames was Rodrik Forrester, fighting off a ring of Frey men. 

_“RODRIK!”_ Gared screamed, but to no avail.

The Freys looked for an opening to strike, but Rodrik struck first, cutting off one man at the legs before delivering a vicious backswing that left another’s head half-hanging from his body. A man wearing the black toad of House Vypren slashed at Rodrik’s face enough to draw blood, was in turn disemboweled by a violent swing of Rodrik’s sword. 

_Oh Gods…_

Rodrik slew three more men still, but was at last kicked in the back of the leg and sent to the ground, his sword flying from his hands. The column of flames rose higher and higher; fur-clad Northmen spilled into the melee, now the fire was too bright and hot to see anything. Tears swelled at Gared’s eyes as he looked away and then broke into a sprint. 

At last, Gared found the Forrester camp, little distance from where Rodrik fought; it was on fire, and the men who before danced and sang were now singing a different song. Norren was struggling with a Whitehill man amidst a pile of bodies, while others wearing the tree and sword fought with those of the hill and stars. A Frey man rounded on Norren from behind and raised his sword. Rushing forward, Gared let out a scream as he loosed the axe; it found its place in the Frey’s throat. Distracted, Norren looked behind him, allowing the Whitehill soldier he fought with to drive his dagger into Norren’s chest. The sight of his own blood sent Norren into a mad fury; he buried his axe in the Whitehill’s skull, and quickly bore down on a flayed man before he could end Sweet Brandon Grayson, hacking at the Bolton’s head half a dozen times until it came off in a sickening red flurry. Sweet Brandon jumped to his feet and joined the fray, saving one of the Forrester men from meeting a Karstark axe.

“Gared…” Brandon held himself up on his sword, but fell into Gared’s arms. Blood seeped from under his arm.

Norren swung his axe at the body of a Frey over and over, blood spraying onto the burly Northerner’s face. The dagger wound seemed not to trouble him at all.

Gared looked around; bodies lay everywhere in pools of blood, men whom Gared had laughed and japed with and drank with. Now they were are all gone. Thermund’s lay roasting in the campfire, an arrow sticking through his mouth. 

“Where’s my squire?” Norren demanded, satisfied with his work. 

Bowen had not followed Gared in his mad race; Gared had been so preoccupied that he didn’t even think to look for him. “I...I don’t know. He ran off.”

Norren looked up into the night sky, his face spotted with blood. 

“Bastards cut us open…” said Sweet Brandon, gasping heavily. 

Looking around, Gared saw that someone was missing from camp. “Lord Forrester!”

“Went lookin’ for Rodrik,” was Norren’s reply. “Who knows where…”

Gared sat Brandon down on a log and took off, ignoring Norren’s calls. The fighting still rang fierce, and it would’ve been a fool’s errand to search under every rock for his lordship. Gared did not have to search long. The sounds of steel meeting steel echoed to his right, brightly illuminated by a column of flames. There stood Lord Gregor, disarming a member of House Erenford before running the smaller man through with Rhaenys, and quickly plunging the greatsword into the gut of a Northman wearing the Karstark sun, slicing him from the navel to his neck. The Lord of Ironrath was caked in blood; an arrow stuck out from his arm, and the bodies of Frey men and their treacherous allies lay all around. 

“My lord!” Gared shouted; Gregor turned to face his squire.

“Rodrik…” Gregor whispered. “Where...where is Rodrik…” His voice was tired, his hands shaking.

Before Gared could respond, a familiar voice echoed behind him. “My lord! We have to go now!”

It was Norren. He was helping Brandon along, the wounded guard captain still clutching a sword even as his face winced in pain.

“I will not leave without Rodrik!” Gregor’s voice boomed and his face grew red. “Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, Ludd Whitehill...you fucking traitors, the lot of you!” He pulled the arrow from his shoulder, groaning in pain.

Brandon looked in the distance and readied his sword, as best as his trembling hands would allow. “My lord, we really must go!”

Drevyn Frey, along with his cousins Ser Jammos and Ronel Rivers, walked at the head of a dozen Frey men-at-arms down the camps, finishing off any survivors they could find. 

“Gregor…” Norren started, making to run.

Lord Gregor looked back sadly at the pile of bodies by the column of flames before nodding and silently turning to run. They all ran as fast as their feet would take them, out of the camps to where a great mass of trees stood. Brandon was barely clinging on, and had to be helped back to his feet by Norren after falling. The camps and the burning fires behind them, they were so close…

“Hey! It’s those fucking Forresters!” a voice yelled out. “To arms! After them!”

Brandon steeled himself and turned to Gregor. “Go, my lord.”

“I won’t lose you too…” Gregor protested.

“ _Now,_ my lord…Norren and I will give you time.”

Gared and Gregor shared a last look with the Forrester personal guard; Norren looked eager for a fight while Brandon gritted his teeth in anticipation. 

“Iron from ice!” Gregor declared, and the other three men echoed him.

Taking off towards the treeline, Gared and Gregor made leaps and bounds to safety. Gared’s heart raced like a horse making a mad dash; all he wanted was to return home…

A series of soft whispers in the wind and Gregor’s ensuing screams caught Gared unaware. As they reached the trees, Gregor fell to his knees, two arrows sticking out from his back. Gared didn’t dare turn back to see who loosed, instead pulling Lord Gregor to his feet.

“Just a bit further, my lord…” Gared panted heavily as twigs and leaves snapped underneath them. “We’ll be...back home soon. I promise.”

They ran and ran for what was surely only a minute or two, but what felt like hours. Gared burned inside and out; laying a hand on his face was sure to melt it. 

“I...I can not…” Gregor fell to his knees, Rhaenys landing on the leaves. 

“My lord!” Gared yelled before rushing back.

_Oh please. Not now. Gods, not now. We can still make it out of this, win this._

Gared looked into Gregor’s eyes; once dark and rich, they were now glazing and tired. Blood was everywhere now, and Gared’s hands were stained with the red when he put his hands on Lord Forrester’s back.

“We have to go, my lord! Before they catch up!”

“I’m not going anywhere, Gared,” said Gregor, his voice heavy with resignation. “I’ll just slow you down.”

Not far off, twigs and leaves were rustled, and men shouted. 

“It’s just a while longer, and then…” Gared started.

“Please, Gared. Go,” he hoisted Rhaenys towards the squire. “This mustn’t fall into those bastards’ hands. Tell my family…” he coughed violently, spitting out blood. “Tell my family that I fought for them to the end. Promise me, Gared! If you'll take one thing from here, take that to them!"

Gared steeled, trying to hide the tears that were forming. “I...I promise, my lord.”

“Over here!” a voice yelled from the trees. 

Gregor got to his feet and pulled out a dirk. “Go.”

The squire wanted to stay, more than anything. He wanted to fight with his lord until the end. But he knew he couldn’t. He picked up Rhaenys and ran away, towards the Trident.

“Lord Walder says you’ve overstayed your fucking welcome!” another voice called.

Gared kept running. He tried not to look back, but curiosity overwhelmed him. He turned to see Gregor, standing his ground against a dozen men. Jammos Frey rushed at him, only to be thrown to the ground. Two Freys met their end at Gregor’s dirk, but as he struggled with Ronel Rivers, his cousin Drevyn plunged his sword through the Lord of Ironrath’s back. Gared saw him slump to the ground, wanted to scream out and rush the Freys. But it would do him no good.

He sprinted away, through the trees, until the Twins were no longer a sight. And he ran and ran until he came upon the Green Fork, its flowing water calling out to him like a sweet song.

\---

“The blood ran and ran...oh Gods, it wouldn’t stop running. Their screams wouldn’t stop, and the wolves howling...if there truly are seven hells, then we were in it then and there.”

\--Some of Raynald Westerling’s last known words, as recorded by Maester Vyman of Riverrun, in a conversation between Ser Raynald and his sister, Jeyne.

\---

“...and awarded to Lord Roose Bolton is the title of Warden of the North, the former domain of the traitors of House Stark. To Ser Emmon Frey, he is hereby granted the lands and titles of the attainted House Tully, including their ancestral seat of Riverrun…”

\--Proclamation read by the Royal Steward of King’s Landing, 299 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter basically corresponds to the first scene of the game. However, much has been changed in order to make it original.


	3. Upon a Burning Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As tales of the Red Wedding spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms, Elsera and Josera Snow learn of it in a most unhappy way.

They left at dawn. It was always just before the sun came creeping over the dark green sentinels and pines that made up the Wolfswood would Elsera Snow and her brother leave behind the great castle of Ironrath and venture into the thick forest that bloomed along the western expanse of the beautiful white North. It had become a daily ritual for the two; Elsera joining with nature as Josera scouted for the game that called the Wolfswood their home. Castles, lovely as they may have been, always felt cramped and cold to Elsera. She longed for being one with the forest and taking in the beauty that the Old Gods had lain before them.

She walked alone in the forest, her long black hair falling into braids and with nothing but the most simple of clothing adorning her; a blue fabric tunic, breeches that hugged tightly to her legs, and a pair of soft cloth leggings that wrapped around her heels and left the rest of her feet exposed to the elements. Josera often commented that she’d need to wear boots less her feet freeze, but Elsera loved the feeling of leaves and grass underfoot. Closing her eyes and inhaling, she never felt more alive than in the forest.

It was during this hour that she’d meld with the shadowcat that had once saved her from a group of wildlings who’d made it south. Bhaenya, she’d called the great beast. The name seemed the perfect fit, as the cat took to it like a fish to water. A shadowcat was oft feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms, thought of as nothing more than a feral predator who could eat a dozen men and yearn for the flesh of still a dozen more. But these were mere tales told by wet nurses to suckling babes. In truth, the shadowcat was a majestic creature, loyal above all else. They’d tear the arm off a poacher just as sure as they’d lick the face of a friend. Mayhaps it was easy for Elsera to see such; most would think of skinchanging as yet another tale along with grumkins and snarks. 

Through the eyes of Bhaenya, it was an entirely different world. Colors, smells, the feel of the ground under paws, the sound of the shadowcat’s heart. A blend of sensations all made the experience unforgettable each time. She would shadow her brother while he hunted and share in the kill. Josera was not as in tune with this great power and shunned it in spite of Elsera’s insistence that he fully embrace his nature. _What we have is a gift from the Gods themselves. Why not use them?_ Elsera heard tales of wargs, those who shared special bonds with their wolves. When the Children of the Forest roamed the land, such a gift wouldn’t have been considered as such. But those days were long gone. A shame, Elsera thought. The idea of truly being one with nature again called to her, no song so sweet.

“Elsie!” she heard his voice. “Wake up!”

Leaving behind the eyes of Bhaenya, she quickly sat up, leaves and pine sticking to her clothes. The world rushed back in all at once, and she no longer felt the shadowcat’s heart. Josera kneeled beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

“It’s still early,” she said.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Never know when you’ll lose yourself in her. It’d be a great sorrow if you did.”

Elsera brushed the leaves off her and stood up, breathing in the morning mist. The sun now illuminated all in the Wolfswood, and the creatures within had scurried off back to their hiding places.

“I told you, Josie,” she said. “You have no need to worry about me. I’ve done this near enough to lose track.”

“You’re my sister. It’s my job to be concerned.”

His dark eyes glimmered in the sun and his long dark mane of hair wrapped around his shoulders. He accustomed himself to shaving every morn, though the hair grew back all too quickly.

“No matter. Catch anything?” she asked.

He gestured to an elk that lay further along the leaves. “Indeed I have, though the credit I believe is yours. I merely wounded it.”

She looked at the elk reflectively, remembered pouncing on it and tearing out its throat. It was always such a shame for one of nature’s creatures to meet its end while in its own domain. 

Flicking back her braid, she said, “You are too kind, brother.” He smiled, his face flushed, before looking nervously to the side.

“Shall we be on our way then?” she asked.

No sooner had they unsaddled the horses than a figure came running from the south. No, run was not the applicable word. He was _sprinting._

Josera’s hand went to his hilt, but Elsera grabbed his arm.

“No, Josera,” she said. “He means us no harm.”

It was easy enough to tell that. As the man came closer to them, he was clearly ragged and out of breath. No sword or axe or any of the kind rest on his person, and his face was one of fright. _Whoever he’s running from, they scared him shitless._

“Ser! Slow down!” shouted Elsera.

The man’s sprint turned into a jog, and his voice was breathless. “I...they...they…” 

He finally reached them, falling into Josera’s arms. Elsera would’ve been able to hear the beat of his heart half a mile away. 

Finally, she recognized him. “Will?” 

Nodding between sharp, raspy breaths, he tried to speak, but could find no words. Will was a simple trader, travelling around the Wolfswood and selling his wares, before leaving for White Harbor and going back to the local village. His face was so covered in wet, warm hair that he didn’t look the same as he usually did, all polite smiles and japes.

“By the Gods, man, what are you running from?” demanded Josera.

Will slipped out of Josera’s arms and collapsed to the ground. His clothes were torn and a boot was missing from one of his feet. The garments worn underneath were full of holes and stained with mud.

Elsera leaned down and put her hands around his shoulders. “Will, tell us what happened!” He spoke fast, a touch too fast for her to make sense of it. “Please, slow down! Take a deep breath.”

He did as she asked. She took breaths with him, so that he may not feel isolated. Josera looked in the direction of the village, where Will had been running from. No one else appeared over the horizon, but Josera’s sword hand remained at the ready all the same.

Finally, Will’s heart stopped racing so fast, and he regained his composure. Or, well enough of it, in any case. “They came from across the river, they did! Started putting all to the sword, carryin' off the women! Oh Gods…” he buried his face in his hands.

Her mind raced. _Who would have done this? Ironborn?_

“Who are they, Will?” she asked. “Please. You can tell me.”

The trader’s eyes went wide and she felt his heart start racing again. “They...I didn’t get a good look at them. I’m sorry. The way they dressed...they had blue cloaks. It’s all I remember.”

Now it was Elsera’s turn to feel her heart racing. She shared a look with her brother; his face was dark and grim. If Will spoke truly, they both knew what this meant.

“Come on, Josera, let’s go,” she said.

“Where...where are ye goin’?” He jumped to his feet. “No...no! You can’t go back there. Ye don’t know what…”

Josera looked at Will, eyes burning and hands shaking. “We’re going to find the bastards who did this,” he didn’t raise his voice once, but his eyes screamed louder than his mouth.

The siblings got on their horses.

“Have heart, Will. They shall not walk away from this,” said Elsera. Her vision was foggy; skinchanging always left her in a blur after, but Will’s story added oil to the fire. She had but one thought on her mind.

As they rode towards the village, the twins looked at each other again, eyes steeled and hearts afire.

  


The nearby village was not much to look at; just another hamlet dotting the lands around the Kingsroad. A few huts made of stone with straw roofs, an apothecary’s, and a trader’s wagon were about all that this drop of land had to offer. Just outside the village was a small pig farm owned by Seamas Tuttle, hemmed in by a ramshackle fence. On a normal day, it was a quiet, peaceful hovel. Today, homes burned and the path ahead ran red. They knew they were walking into a butcher’s cove, but they cared not. Elsera wore a pair of long daggers over her back, and an axe at her side, while Josera had a sword and axe both at the ready.

Josie whistled and pointed to a most gruesome sight. A wagon was overturned in the middle of the path ahead, several bodies in green armor circled around it. The horses that pulled it lay in pools of blood, their once beautiful manes soaked in mud. Elsera jumped off her horse and dashed to the wagon. Bending down to take a closer look, she recognized the sigils worn by the fallen men.

“Our father’s men…” she said mournfully. “Slaughtered like sheep.”

A faint whinnying sound stirred her; when she looked up, she saw one of the horses writhing on the ground. A tear fell from her eye at the sight of a once majestic animal carved up by butchers. She lay her hand across the horse’s face, feeling the last bit of warmth it emanated. 

She felt a hand across her shoulder. “I’m sorry, sister.”

So many different emotions hit her at once that she felt as if she’d black out. 

Elsera looked once more on the horse, gave it one last pat, before standing up and turning her heel. Josera pulled out a dagger and leaned down by the horse. She heard him shush the poor creature before the sound of flesh meeting steel rang, and the horse breathed its last. As she stared off into the countryside, a most peculiar sight appeared in the corner of her eye; a pig the size of a wolf crossed her path. She followed the hoof marks to see that the fence surrounding the pig farm was torn to pieces, and tracks led down the slope. She moved in for a closer look…

“Elsie!” Josera called to her, but she paid him no mind.

Moving down the slope towards the farm, she heard laughter echo throughout the Wolfswood. She slipped down the slope quickly and looped around the farmhouse, the grass masking her footfalls. Two horses were saddled up outside the back of the cabin, the back door torn off the walls and bent beyond repair. Peeking around the house towards the pasture, she saw three men in padded armor and blue cloaks lounging about by the door. One sat on a large bale of hay as the other two leaned on their mounts. The one sitting down was busy tossing clothing, cutlery, and empty bottles from a sack and onto the ground. 

“Bunch of shit,” he said. “These sods had nought but a few groats.” Taking a wooden bowl from the sack, he slammed it to the ground with such force that it shattered on impact into a million fragments.

The pasture was made a right mess of; pigs and horses lay sprawled out with sword-shaped holes in them, while blood coated the dirt and hay. Sounds of screaming came from within the cabin; Elsera peered through a small hole carved in the stone outside to see a haggard, bloodied man sitting in a chair while another cloaked brute struck him multiple times and yelled straight into his ears. A lantern sitting on a nearby table faintly illuminated the man’s features; _Seamas!_ He was barely recognizable with the blood seeping from every hole.

One of the men standing by the horses yelled into the house, “Fuckin’ shut that geezer’s mouth, yeah? He’s makin’ me ears bleed!”

Elsie heard the ruffle of grass behind her and unsheathed her dagger, rising it through the air in a motion quick enough for the sound of metal to ring out, before quickly turning her heel.

“Easy, sis!” Josera whispered, his hands outstretched and palms open. Elsie put the dagger back where it lay and turned back to the men. “Who the fuck are they?”

Elsera put a finger to her mouth. Saemas screamed even louder and Josera moved to look inside.

The lone man on the hay bale threw the sack to the ground, its contents spilling out, before jumping up and pacing into the house. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Rody! I don’t want to hear another bleedin’ sound out of him!” he screamed to the torturer.

The man’s face was lit by the lantern; he was pale, clean-shaven, and sporting a pug nose while blonde hair speckled with dirt flowed in every which way. He wore two sigils on his coat that Elsie could not make out. 

She made to move out into the open, but Josie grabbed her arm and held her back. “How many?” he asked in a whisper, his eyes wide.

“Five horses from what I’ve seen, but one less man” she replied.

“Well by my count, that’s more than us,” Josie was such a smartarse. “So how ‘bout we hold off for now, sis?”

Elsie glared at her brother and shook from head to toe. “Wait any longer and…”

The men inside continued arguing while those by their horses laughed and passed around a thin piece of cloth wrapped around a dash of herbs, inhaling it deeply.

“He’s gotta have somethin’ here, Britt!” Rody pleaded. “He runs a farm and all!”

Britt, the pug-nosed brute, wracked the smaller man around his head before grabbing him by his hair. “You dumb shit, we’ve searched all around this fuckin’ slough and you beatin’ on this sod some more won’t make the bloody gold dragons just fuckin’ present themselves!”

A sobbing sound came from within, and it made Britt release his grip on Rody and turn to face it.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweet thing,” he said with a wolfish grin. “We’ll be outta here soon enough.”

Elsie followed his gaze, and saw just enough among the dancing shadows to make out the face of a little girl, face streaked with tears. She felt as if her insides were burning up and made to move again, only for Josera to again pull her back.

“We keep waiting and the more bad shit happens!” she tried to keep her voice down, but it was getting unbearable.

“And you go out there, you’re liable to get a sword in your belly!”

The little girl, Elsie recognized on sight as Jenna, Saemas’ youngest daughter. But where were Tasha and Saede? She had not seen anyone else around; none who lived anyway.

One of the men standing by the horses, a thin, black-haired man, tossed the cloth of herbs to the ground. “Come on, you lot! We really need to get back now!” He turned to his horse and muttered to himself. “Lord Bolton ought to give us fuckin’ titles for this…”

“Bolton?” Josera whispered. “But why…”

Britt’s sharp voice cut him off. “Enough standing around in pig shit. We’re leaving. As soon as Mikal’s done having his fun with the lady of the house.”

_Oh fuck. Tasha!_

Rody looked confused, and stuttered while trying to get words to come out. “But...but what ab...about me?”

Grabbing the torturer by his coat, Britt shoved him outside and into the sun. “You shoulda thought of that before you tried your hand at playin’ the bleedin’ Lord Confessor! Now shut your bloody mouth and get the horses ready!” 

Rody’s face curled up into a snarl, and his eyes stayed looking at the ground. The other two men simply laughed at his predicament.

Inside, Britt let out a heavy sigh before taking out a dagger. “Make everything so bloody difficult…” and pressed it to Saemas’s throat, slicing it in a quick motion. Blood poured out, his beating heart causing it to gush out in all directions.

Jenna wailed, her screams drowning out all else. Saemas’ blood got on Britt’s face, and the pug-nosed man’s face grew flush; he struck Saemas in the head with such force that he sent the farmer straight to the floor. He proceeded to kick the dying man several more times for good measure.

“Your fuckin’ blood…” he then turned to Jenna. “Look what your father made me do!”

Jenna screamed at Britt, tears flowing down her poor face. _“BURN IN HELL!”_

Elsie could bear witness to no more of it. She quickly strode out from behind the house, and this time Josera was too slow to grab her. She ignored his voice, didn’t even want to speak to him. She could see nothing but red as she rounded on the men outside. 

_"Hey!”_ She called out. They stopped laughing when they took sight of her.

“Well, hello,” the dark-haired man said in a seductive tone. “And who do we have here, such a sweet little thing?”

Elsie did not answer; as her entire body seethed, she felt a presence rise up next to her.

The men suddenly stopped smiling. Josera had unsheathed his sword and was standing side-by-side with his sister. 

“Britt!” the second man, thin of hair, yelled to the cabin. “Get out here!”

“Are you happy now, sis?” Josie asked.

She shot him a glance. “Quiet!” 

Britt emerged from the cabin, a look of curiosity spreading across his face. Elsie now had a clear view of the sigils these men wore; a barren white hill under an arch of stars laid against a purple sky. _These bastards had a clear lack of imagination when they came up with their name._ Britt had the same, and across from that, a black claw bracing for the kill. Their cloaks, a dark blue, were all stained with bits of blood as they flapped in the breeze. And then her eyes were drawn to a body covered by a bedsheet lying on the grass by the hay. Elsie couldn’t make out anything beyond a lock of dirty blonde hair stained with blood, and her heart sank. She knew who it was without seeing her face. 

“I don’t know who you two are,” he said while waving his dagger, Saemas’ blood still coated on. “But you can see there’s nothing for you here. Best run along now.”

Josie stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the pug-nosed butcher. “This is Forrester land, Whitehill. We aren’t the ones overstepping our bounds.”

The three men by the horses laughed ruefully. Josie looked about ready to strike down all of them at once, an obvious irritation settling in on his face.

“They really don’t know!” said the dark-haired man, punctuating his words with laughter. “I thought all knew by now! Unborn babes know of the Red Wedding!”

The only wedding Elsie knew of was that between Lord Edmure and a Frey girl. The Young Wolf had been at the wedding on his way to reclaim the North from the Ironborn, and their lord father had gone with him, as had thousands from Last Hearth to Maidenpool.

“The bleedin’ hell are you on about, Whitehill?” Elsie demanded. “What wedding?”

Britt smiled ear to ear and clicked his tongue. “Oh, this is such a shame.” He stepped down from the cabin and began to pace. “You see, the King in the North had a little...well, let’s just say he was put down last night like the rabid dog he was. So were everyone else who followed him. It was quite a dance of death, I heard.”

Everything felt loose, as if Elsie could float away without thought. It couldn’t...how could… _"No,”_ she barely whispered it.

“Lies! A song of bloody lies!” Josie shouted. Now he was shaking and seething, the heat coming from his body could’ve been felt by all who stood there.

“All true, actually,” Britt said, half-grinning. “The Starks are gone.” He put his hands to his mouth and then spread them to the sky like he were a mummer performing a play. “And now Lord Bolton is Warden of the North. A long time coming, I’ll say.”

Josie’s eyes drifted to the ground. “Father…” he whispered.

The dark-haired man started towards her. “That axe sure looks nice...and those daggers! So beautiful. Mind if I have them?” He smiled and extended his hand.

Elsie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. _Old Gods, light my way._ “Of course,” she said, her hand reaching for the daggers strapped to her back. “Let it be a part of you as it’s been to me.”

And with a quick flick of her wrist, the dagger glided into the Whitehill’s throat; he clutched it as blood came through his mouth in rivulets while sinking to his knees. The other men screamed at her and drew their swords, but Josera jumped into the melee, running through the thin-haired man before he could strike while Britt rushed at him. As Rody closed in on Elsie, she ducked his swing before burying her axe in his gut. As he doubled over, she brought the axe down on his head with all her might. 

A scream echoed from her right; she looked to see Britt plunging his dagger into Josie’s thigh before the bigger man elbowed Britt in the head, sending him onto his arse, the dagger flying from his hand. From inside the cabin, another man wearing the hill and stars emerged, his breeches dangling loosely from his hips. He rounded on the wounded Josie, sword in his hands and a flash of mirth on his face. Elsie screamed a warning as she sprinted towards the man, sliding across the ground and catching a blow with her axe that was meant for her brother. The man swung at her again, and again his steel bounced off her axe. As he lifted his sword for a third swing, Josie’s axe hamstrung him; the man groaned in pain and dropped his sword. Before his knees hit the ground, Josie grabbed his hair before quickly slashing the man’s throat from ear to ear.

Before they even had a second to breathe, Elsie saw a flash of blue running towards them. “Josie!” she called out, in time for her brother to turn around and catch Britt before he could sink his dagger through more of Josie’s flesh. Josie’s leg gave out, however, and Britt delivered a hard kick to the open wound on his thigh, sending Josie sprawling to the ground. Elsie jumped up and caught Britt’s hands before he drove the dagger downwards, the two locked in a struggle. Britt’s nostrils flared and a wild look came over him; his eyes were so hollow that Elsie felt she could see straight through them. The dagger inched ever closer to her face…

Suddenly, arms locked around Britt’s neck and caused him to stumble backwards. Elsie seized the moment, giving Britt a swift headbutt and clawing at his face, leaving a bloody gash under his eye. The pug-faced Whitehill responded in kind with a hard kick to between Elsie’s legs. The pain was intense, shooting up all throughout her body. She fell. So did Britt, several feet away, and the body those arms belong to. Elsie looked at her savior - _Tasha!_ She was bruised and her clothes were torn and hung limply. Britt crawled back to the house and scrambled to his feet. One on three was a losing proposition unless you were Barristan the Bold, and Britt wasn’t even on the same field as a hedge knight. He quickly turned tail and ran into the cabin, turning over chairs and other furniture in his mad dash.

Elsie rushed in after him, aware of his intentions. There was still one more in the cabin he had not finished despoiling. The girl screamed just before Elsie stepped foot in the cabin; she found him holding young Jenna, one arm wrapped tightly around her face and the other holding a dagger to her throat. Saemas’ body lay on the floor, the blood so thick that he was unrecognizable.

“Not a step further,” he cautioned, his voice low and raspy. “You stupid bitch, you should’ve left while you had the chance. Now Lord Whitehill is gonna come down here and kill you and the rest of the Forrester trash.”

Elsie’s hand hovered near her other dagger. “Your hand slips and I’ll see to it that you die screaming.”

The scratch marks she had given Britt were ugly and dripping blood everywhere. His eye twitched as the blood dropped, the lantern brightly illuminating his face. “Let’s play a game.”

“No games!” she snapped. “Now unhand her.”

His arm muffled Jenna’s screams, and he held her so tightly that she could do nought but writhe. Blood was coated on her shirt around her shoulder, likely from the gaping scratch marks under Britt’s eye.

“Now he, whoever he is to you, has a very nasty cut,” Britt said while waving his dagger about. “I’m sure if you find a maester soon enough, he’ll live. But you follow me and he may not.”

Elsera took a step forward, ready to pounce. Britt saw this and pressed the dagger to Jenna’s throat. No room for a misstep if she went for her own dagger. 

“Wound or no, Josie could still knock your arse to the ground.”

Britt laughed, his eye still twitching. “Mayhaps. So allow me to take my leave.”

Before she could react, he sent the girl forward and flipped over the table, sending the lantern crashing to the floor and spilling its oil all over the tiles. Flames spread quickly, lighting all and blocking her from giving pursuit as he fled out the back way. Quickly grabbing Jenna, she ran out into the sun as the flames spread and grew hotter. Josie and Tasha rushed to meet her.

“Jenna!” Tasha yelled at the sight of her daughter. 

Elsera set Jenna down, and the girl rushed into her mother’s arms. Tears streamed down both their faces. An odd sight formed; the blood on Jenna’s shirt seemed to be pooling up even more than before. 

Josera’s face bore a pained expression, and he pressed his hand onto the still bleeding wound. 

“We need to get back to Ironrath,” she said. “Maester Ortengryn…”

“Sod that! Just get after him!” he barked.

Circling around the house, she found fresh hoof marks leading towards the forest. The second horse that had been saddled there had run off as well. She could track him, if she moved quickly. She doubled back to the pasture for her mount and was met with the sight of Tasha holding Jenna’s body in her arms. Blood flowed from the child and dripped onto the grass, a fresh cut travelling from her shoulder down to her forearm.

“Mommy…it hurts…” Jenna’s words were slurred and she was losing consciousness.

“No! Please, no!” Rivulets of tears poured down Tasha’s face. “Please! I can’t lose you, too! I can’t lose anyone else!”

_That was your parting gift, you bastard? After all else, you felt you hadn’t done enough?_

Britt would have to wait another day. 

“If we go now, we can save her,” said Elsie. “But we have to move now. _Right now.”_

Tasha looked up, her face red from crying. “Saede...they...we can’t leave her here, for the vultures.”

Josera looked over Saede’s body; it still lay on the grass, covered by a blood-stained sheet. He lifted the sheet up, gazed quietly at her.

“We’ll take her back with us,” he said. “I’m...I’m sorry we couldn’t be here sooner.”

Elsie wanted to say so many things to her brother. She wanted to scream at him for holding her back when she wanted to step in. But there’d be time and more for that later. 

Elsie retrieved her axe from the grass and the dagger from the dark-haired man’s throat, wiping the blood off on his coat. After wrapping tourniquets around Jenna’s arm and Josie’s thigh, the twins carried Saede’s body, still wrapped in the sheet, and placed it gently on the back of Josie’s horse. Tasha and Jenna rode with Elsie, the little girl in front - tightly hugging Elsie - and her mother riding on the mount’s back. They rode off as the cabin’s roof collapsed, the smoke rising into the morning air.

She looked at Jenna; the girl was barely awake, but still clung to Elsie, still warm.

“It’ll all be better soon, Jenna. I promise.” _Like I can promise that._

As she looked on at the path ahead of her and the great pines lining the way, she closed her eyes and for just a moment, when she opened them, she looked through the eyes of Bhaenya, at one with the forest again.

  


\---

  


“When he found Lord Forrester’s body, Lord Bolton took a look around and asked who had delivered the killing blow. ‘I did, my lord,’ came the answer. The Leech Lord then said, calm as you please, ‘Oh? And who might you be?’ ‘Drevyn Frey, my lord. Grand-nephew to Lord Walder.’ One minute, Drevyn just looked pleased as a cat, he did. But the next, Lord Bolton backhanded him so fierce that Drevyn fell flat on his arse. ‘I specifically gave orders to subdue the lords, not butcher them. You may be kin to Walder Frey, but do not think for a moment that it gives you leave to do whatever you please.’ I tell you, Lord Bolton’s eyes...they’re so pale, like chips of milk. No one dares cross a man like that unless they’re looking to have their skin flayed off as they bear witness to it.”

\--Comments made by Martyn Rivers to Daven Lannister at the Siege of Riverrun, 300 AC. 

  


\---

  


“What of the reward for House Whitehill? They proved loyal to the crown in the end, after all.” 

“A most peculiar house, the Whitehills. Northerners who follow the Seven...they’re a bit far from home.” 

“They seek complete control over the ironwood trade in the Wolfswood. It would be a painless way to bring this feud between them and the Forresters to a close...mayhaps marry the two houses to bring them completely under control of the Iron Throne.”

“You think that a petty feud between two Wolfswood clans is in our best interests, Kevan? We have more than enough to contend with elsewhere. Let them sort it out between themselves. Secure hostages from the Forresters and maybe a title or two for some of Ludd Whitehill’s sons. He’s hardly the most reliable sort to simply be giving control of the ironwood to.”

“This feud between the two houses...it makes the Blackwoods and Brackens look like the greatest of friends. I fear the conflict may soon grow too large to ignore. The North is already unstable enough as it is.”

“I trust Roose Bolton can keep the peace. If he cares to, I’ll give him leave to send for some of the Freys to help. Put them to some good use. But we can not simply send men north to interlope when we’ve already been stretched so thin in this war.”

“And if the Forresters think to lash out at us, then what?”

“Then I shall send them a bard to remind them of the Reynes.”

\--Conversation between Ser Kevan Lannister and his brother, Lord Tywin Lannister, 299 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter roughly corresponds with the second scene of the game. However, much has been changed, including viewpoint character.


	4. In the Wake of the Red Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his lord and much of the Northern army dead, Gared must find a way back home past miles of unfriendly territory. But not all have heard of the Red Wedding, and they seek to make their fortunes in the war's wake.

_I have to get back home._

Gared had been running since the hour of the wolf struck and killing fields sprung up around the Twins. He finally left the woods behind him, the smoke from the camps sticking to his clothes like bad ale. The fires were still visible half a mile off, but the Frey pursuers seemed to have lost heart and were nowhere to be found. _Lord Forrester, Rodrik, Sweet Brandon, Norren and Thermund, Jacarys and Liram...they’re all gone, and I couldn’t help them._ Betrayal stung like a porcupine’s needles. The Freys were never to be trusted; the last noble of that lot had faded into mist by the time old Walder became lord. The likes of Forrest the Fool and the lovely Sabitha were never to be seen again. In their place was a house full to bursting with the worst shit the Seven Kingdoms could offer. Gared expected little and less honor from the likes of them.

But Northmen turning on each other? Men who just moments before drank and japed with each other turned to butchering one another as that terrible song played? The thoughts clawed at Gared’s mind. Torrhen Whitehill’s sweet words had been just that. And with Lord Forrester gone, the Lord of Highpoint was sure to be pleased, like a cat swallowing a canary. The Whitehills had been Bolton bannermen since the days when the North was still a kingdom; small wonder that they followed their liege lords to slaughter loyal Northerners the second the opportunity presented itself.

He followed the flow of the Green Fork upstream far enough to slip out by the Kingsroad, with the night sky soon to give way to the morning sun. Its bright embrace would herald an end to the horrible night past, but it would never wash away the blood that had been spilled, nor the lies that came off the tongues of those guilty. Gared knew he had to move fast; the Riverlands were going to be crawling with Lord Walder’s weasel-faced ruffians before long, looking to take part in the raping and pillaging of the land under the pretense of keeping the king’s peace. The weight of Rhaenys slowed his march, and his throat grew dry, the urge to dig his hand down and scratch at it overwhelming him. He thought to take the Kingsroad and travel north to Greywater Watch, where he had hoped the Reeds would shelter him and secure him passage past Moat Cailin to Ironrath, avoiding the bands of Ironborn reavers. 

The sight of the Kingsroad dashed those hopes - soldiers in plate armor, wearing sigils of the Lannister lion and the Tyrell rose were guarding every which way, north and south. Gared had torn off the tree and sword adorning his coat, but being stopped for questioning so close to the Twins was not a pleasant thought. Even if his head weren’t lopped off or his hands put in irons, they weren’t like to simply let him be on his way. Questions would be like to take many an hour, well enough time for a Frey rider to stumble upon him and give him away. When he closed his eyes, he still saw the face of the Frey who ran his sword through Lord Gregor’s back, dark mangy hair and smirking face lit by the fires. _Drevyn,_ Gared remembered his name. He’d nought heard of such a Frey by that name before, but anyone wanting to remember the names of every weasel at the Crossing would’ve had to have been quite mad indeed.

No matter, the Kingsroad was not welcoming to him and the forest to the north was no place he wished to traverse. If the wolves or shadowcats didn’t get him with their claws, the Crannogmen were as like to do him in with their arrows before asking questions of him. But with the road to the north guarded by royalist patrols, the impassable mountains of the Vale blocking his way east, and the killing grounds of the Twins to his west, that left... _Where?_ There was nothing for him south, save for enemies on all fronts. And the farther south he was to go, the more likely he was to run into someone loyal to the Iron Throne. 

As he slumped by a great pine, sweat running down his face and his long hair sticking to the back of his shirt, Gared wracked his mind for where to turn to. _Nowhere on this side of the river._ Any holds loyal to the Young Wolf lay on the other side of the Green Fork, and Gared did not wish to swim across. Even if he waded through safely, he was liable to freeze to death once at the opposite end . If he were to make it across, mayhaps he could’ve gone to Riverrun and sought refuge with the Blackfish. But that was going in the opposite direction, and he imagined that the Freys were as like to be there ahead of him, and there would be nowhere to turn if it came to that. And then he finally found an answer. _Seagard!_ It was the seat of House Mallister, with a castle that lived up to its name. If he could secure passage on a ship, he could sail north, past the royalists and the Ironborn all. But the Trident stood between him and there, and still more miles of land after. Still, he had few appealing options, and started south. He’d stick to the trees and avoid the Kingsroad as best he could, and put enough distance between him and the Twins to not have to fear the encroaching Frey war parties. Glancing off towards the sky, he found the stars to be dimming and the black sky giving way to a fine red glow. Hopefully, men still found time to get away from the war and fish every morn.

The night sky was now turned blue, and the sun was peeking up across the land, slow to rise. _Gods, even the stars feel shamed._ No longer running, Gared paced himself on the walk south, his heart beating with every step as Rhaenys dangled from his hand, its sharp edge slicing through leaves as he went. It would be longer still until he was safely back in the great hall of Ironrath. How he missed it; the sun rising over the valley of ironwood trees, Ethan and Talia playing in the courtyard, the castle servants preparing a grand breakfast for all under the eyes of Lady Elissa, even Ser Royland barking insults at the men he trained. He would’ve made a fine instructor for King Robb’s army. While Gared was a boy, playing on his family’s farm with his sisters, he cast himself as a great warrior, riding a beautiful mount into battle and winning great glory. _The songs always make it sound so sweet._ From what he had witnessed while riding with the King in the North, battles were not clean, chivalrous affairs where gallant men proved their bravery and fought honorably; they were foggy, savage slaughters where the grass ran thick with blood and men crawled around looking for their missing arm or leg.

The Twins were long behind him now, and the Trident crept up on him from his right, curving in to flow side by side the Kingsroad. His eyes drifted across the water, looking for any signs of life as the sun’s light reflected down the stream. It was still early enough, yet, and the fish were enjoying having free reign of the river. Still, he found no one. And then, on the horizon, smoke drifted upwards, and he followed it down to a house carved of stone. Wasting no time, he let his excitement take hold of him and broke off into a sprint, almost dropping Rhaenys along the way. And walking from the house came a man, pulling along a heavy mass of bark to the river bank.

“Ser!” Gared called out to the man, rushing to meet him. “Ser, wait!”

The fisherman dropped his canoe at the sight of Gared, and slowly backed off it. “What do ye want, boy?” his voice was deep with apprehension, and the rest of his body did not give off any warmer a greeting.

Gared stopped short of the man and hunched over, waiting for his breath to return. He felt afire, even as a cool breeze wafted over him.

“I said what do ye want?” the fisherman repeated. “Come to rob me? Well ye’d best turn back, ‘cause I’ve nothing for ya.”

 _Seven hells, no._ “Please, ser. I need…”

“And don’t ya call me ‘ser’ now! I want no part of knighthood!”

Gared’s breath caught back up with him, and he let silence fill the air for a moment. The fisherman was a ruddy older sort, long grey hair running into a tangled beard that looked as if he hadn’t shaved since the days of the Mad King. 

“I…” Gared looked to find the right words. “I need to get across the river, and I’ll do anything for you to give me passage.”

In his merry at finding a man with a canoe, Gared hadn’t paid the slightest mind to just how he’d pay the man. His purse carried nought but a handful of groats and mayhaps a stag or two. 

The old fisherman just smiled and laughed. “I have a family to feed, if ye please. And meaning no offense, ye don’ look like ye’ve got two pennies to rub together. You’re young, boy. Still have spirit in ya. A swim would do ye some good.”

The young squire dug into his purse and returned with all its contents. “This is all I have,” he said while extending his fist towards the man. 

As the old man cast a wary eye on Gared, he slowly reached for the coins before snatching them out the squire’s hand. He gave them a glance over before scoffing.

“I suppose I could buy half a loaf with this. If I’m lucky and find a trader with less wits than a mouse, he might even throw in a spoonful of milk.”

 _I do apologize, I left all of my riches in my golden castle._ “What of this?” Gared unsheathed his dirk, and the fisherman jumped at the sight of it, a look of anger on his face. “You could sell this for some coin.” At least if brigands tried to rob Gared, he could always dance for them. Mayhaps they’d die of laughter then.

Once the fisherman realized Gared wasn’t planning on piercing him, he merely said with a wave of his hand, “Ye walk around much, boy? Seems not, for ye haven’t much noticed that there’s a bleedin’ war on. I could walk ten steps in any direction and find a half a dozen fuckin’ swords, and bigger ones at that. Caravans have no use for ‘em; they’re as common a sight as crows around these parts.” His eyes then looked downwards, and Gared followed them to the ancestral Forrester greatsword that the squire still held. “Now that, on the other hand...is that Valyrian steel?”

House Forrester was not near likely to ever get such. Gared had heard tales that before Aegon the Conqueror rained fire and blood on the south, Lord Gawen Forrester rode into battle with a magnificent Valyrian sword whose name was lost to history. Rhaenys was simply a very ornate and beautiful greatsword that any third-string blacksmith could tell was not Valyrian. Gared thought of simply going along with it and telling the fisherman that yes, this was forged in the fires of Old Valyria and had taken part in every war that befell the Seven Kingdoms since the Dawn Age. But Lord Gregor took great pride in Rhaenys; it was his father’s before him, and his grandfather’s before even that. Gared could not bear to insult Gregor’s memory by hawking it off on the nearest soul he could find.

“Afraid not,” said Gared, tightly holding Rhaenys. “But I can no sooner part with this than you part with the fish. It belonged to a great man, and he wouldn’t wish me to see it lost.”

The fisherman squinted at Gared, the sun now beaming down on both of them. “Will small wonders never cease…” He glared at Gared for an uncomfortable length of time, until he finally said, “Fine. I’ll give ye passage, boy.”

Gared breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, ser. I’ll…”

“And what’d I tell ye about calling me ‘ser’?” he snapped. “Help me get this into the water. And if I catch ya so much as eyein’ any of my supplies, it’ll be the last thing your eyes ever see.”

He helped the fisherman push the canoe into the river, and the two jumped on before it cast out. The old man had come well prepared to fish; there was enough food and water on that barge to last him until nightfall. The old man paddled them away from the house and out onto the great Green Fork. The day was strangely peaceful, and there was little hint that the night past was anything but a hazy drunken brawl. Gared’s eyes flicked to the jug of water that rested by the man’s side, its glow calling to him.

“Haven’t missed a morn fishin’ since I was a lad,” the man said. “Comin’ out here, I love to get away from all of that shit the lords play at.”

The fish floated around under the lake, from great snappers to cuttlefish. They dived out of the way of the canoe as it rolled past, the barge rocking back and forth under the weight of both men.

“Well, except when I went off to war.” The fisherman slowed the roll as he shared a look with Gared. “That was goin’ on, what, ten-and-eight years past? Long time to forget much and more.”

Gared only knew of one war fought around that time. He was born the same year on the farm, a short ride to the castle where he’d end up spending his days. “For Robert or for the Mad King?” he asked.

The fisherman wrly chuckled. “King Robert, a’ course,” he said. “I don’ have much love for kings and lords, but there were no finer man than King Robert. If he’d lived, we wouldn’t be stuck in this shit.” He spat over the side of the canoe. “I come from down south a ways. When Lord Lychester needed good men to fight, I couldn’t sit still long enough. My wife pleaded with me not to go; we had an unborn babe and she might never see me again. I thought I’d be winning enough glory so our grandchildren would never need to go hungry.”

Looking back at the small, weathered house on the shore and then turning his gaze to the fisherman’s ragged robes and unkempt hair, Gared suspected there was a ‘but’ coming.

“My lord’s father fought for Robert, too. At the Trident,” said Gared. 

Lord Thorren the Bold, so named for his seizing back of the river valley that separated Ironrath and Highpoint, had fallen in battle against Rhaegar Targaryen, and so it was that Ironrath passed to Gregor. He was a most unlikely heir; the thirdborn son who had there been no rebellion, was like to spend his days married off to a Cassel or a Glenmore, or mayhaps at the Wall. But Aidin had gone with Brandon Stark to King’s Landing after Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna Stark, and so it was that two heirs to mighty houses never made it back north. Cregan perished at the Battle of the Bells against Jon Connington’s men, slain by Ser Myles Mooton before the former squire to Rhaegar met his end at the hands of Robert Baratheon. Gregor may have been an unlikely heir, but in time would come to grow into the lordship. “Gregor the Good'', he was called by the smallfolk who resided in the Wolfswood. None would see his like again.

“Aye?” the fisherman’s ears pricked up. “We arrived a touch late to the battle, but I still remember Robert swinging that warhammer like it were nothin’, and Lord Stark with that Valyrian sword of his. They say when Robert smashed in Rhaegar’s chest, the rubies that flew off were being found by little ones as far as Maidenpool.” His laugh boomed and echoed across the river. However, his laughter soon faded and was replaced by a look of gloom. “I’d be lyin’ to say that I cut down hundreds of men and won riches for all eyes to see. When we got to the Trident, I just wished it to all be over. So many boys lost forever...boys I grew up with. They weren’t singin’ songs of victory when the battle came. They were scared shitless and wantin’ to run away. And in truth, so did I.”

“And why didn’t you?” the squire asked.

Looking off into the distance down the Green Fork, the fisherman looked still enough to be a statue. “‘Cause I didn’ want to be called craven. So I fought on, saw enough blood to get a century’s fill. And when it all passed, you can see with your own eyes that I didn’t get glory.” His eyes turned downwards to the floor of the canoe. “And when this...this fuckin’ war broke out, my son, my only son, went off to fight in it. I begged him not to, told him to think of his unborn babe. And he wouldn’t listen to me. His ma wouldn’t leave the bed for a week after.”

Tears were clearly welling in the man’s eyes, as best he tried to hide them. “And now...I don’ even know where he is. He wrote just a moon past, but we haven’t heard from him since. Says he went up north, a squire for some lord or somethin’. I just want him to come home.”

They were almost to shore now. Soon, the long walk to Seagard would begin in earnest. Gared wished he had a horse, but he knew all too well the saying about wishing and shitting.

“I’m sorry, ser--” he caught himself. “I’m sorry.”

A faint smile came to the man’s bearded face. “My name’s Korben, if ye wished to know.”

“Gared.”

“You be good now, Gared, ya hear?” he replied. “You were loyal to your lord, and loyalty is so hard to come by these days.”

_You don’t know the half of it._

Korben rowed the canoe up to the shore and Gared grabbed Rhaenys and jumped up, rushing off the side.

“Before you go,” Korben said, “Please...take this with you.”

He extended a canteen towards Gared, and the squire almost fainted at the thought of the cool, refreshing taste. 

“I couldn’t do that…”

“Now I don’t want to hear it,” was the fisherman’s reply. “Ye been eyein’ it the whole way over. Consider it a thanks for listenin’ to an old man talk.”

Slowly, Gared reached for the canteen, felt the metal across his hand, before gingerly taking it out of Korben’s hand and tying it to his waist. “I, uh...thank you.”

Korben steadied the oar and gave a last look to Gared. “Take it from me, Gared, and leave this bloody war behind ya. No good will ever come out of war.”

Before Gared could respond, Korben had paddled the canoe back into the water and cast out. Gared took one last longing look at the old fisherman before setting off west. The sun hovered in the sky, now almost directly on top of him. _Wish I had a horse._ But at least now he wouldn’t go thirsty. He unloosed the top of the canteen and poured its contents down his throat, the fresh water going down like the sweet Arbor Red he drank the night past.

The village of Sevenstreams lay farther up the path. If at all feasible, Gared would’ve avoided any semblance of civilization lest he run into royalist patrols or Frey freeriders, but the least troublesome path to Seagard lay beyond the villages of Sevenstreams and Hag’s Mire. He felt as if he were walking back into the lion’s den; this was still Frey land, and all it would take was someone whom he exchanged words with at the wedding to make him and bring the entire weight of the Iron Throne down on his head. Hopefully all would take him for a simple traveller, for there were after all, plenty to be found in the war’s wake. 

Leaning down next to one of the streams that crisscrossed the land, Gared refilled the near-empty canteen of water and drank deeply, before filling it yet again. _Gods, you’d almost forget there was a war on._ No matter what devastation befell the Seven Kingdoms, one could never take away the natural beauty of the Riverlands. He was so enraptured by the beautiful streams, brooks, and rills that he wanted to simply lie down and forget all that happened.

And then, by the bushes, a soft hum whistled through the air; a most beautiful sound. “Come to take in the country?” a voice startled Gared, and he turned to face it. “Relax, boy! Don’t mind me, just playin’ a song.”

The man whom the voice belonged to sat cross-legged by the water, a harp in his hands. He picked over the strings, a gentle melody emerging. “Though you look a touch lost, if I do say so.” He said in a sing-song tone.

“You been watching me the whole time, have you?” asked Gared. The dirk still clung to his breeches, and he was prepared to throw down Rhaenys and start swinging if the harp player’s intentions were cruel.

“I happen to be from here if you wish to know. And you ain’t exactly a sight to look at, friend,” said the man, flush with cheeky grin. He then stood up and walked towards Gared. He was thin and wrinkled, long dark hair falling down across a green fabric backside. And on his waist were a set of concealed knives, while a woodcutter’s axe lay strapped across his back. He picked the strings of the harp still more. “But don’t take it for offense. You just look like a lad who’s spent the last night fightin’ with dogs.”

Gared reflexively took a step back, his heart racing. _Is he a Frey? He doesn’t quite match the look._ No weasel face did he have; much more fox than than the chinless, homely looks that much of Walder Frey’s brood sported. 

“Would you relax!” he said, calmly picking the strings. “If I wanted your blood you think we’d be talkin’ now?”

“Mayhaps you thought I was some lost lord,” said Gared. “Mayhaps you’ve others waiting in the trees.”

The harp player laughed loud enough for all around to hear. “If you’s a lord, then I’m Emperor of fucking Yi-Ti!” He laughed and laughed, never breaking his harpsichordist concentration. “Though I do wonder how a lad like you got a sword like that. Stole it, did ya?” and his expression grew dark. “Didn’t take it off some poor sod that you stabbed in the back?”

“Mind your fucking self,” whispered Gared, completely flushed. “Or I’ll give you this sword edge-first. Where would you like it? Your belly, or through your fuckin’ eyes?” Gared could scarce believe the words that came from his mouth. “Ten stags say this sword has a longer reach than that axe.”

The fox-faced man glared sourly at Gared, his face jumping from darkness to light in a matter of seconds. “Oh, you I like!” he broke into more laughter. “Look at the stones on this one!” 

Gared played along, laughing with the man. All the better than making himself an easy target.

“But...you ain’t from around here, are ya? No, Northerner then?” _Perceptive one, this._ “Yeah, you sound Northern, and you sure as shit dress Northern, too.” Looking at Gared’s clothes, his eyes focused on the fabric where Gared had torn off the Forrester sigil. “I won’t ask whose banner you’re flyin’. But since you ain’t from here, that means I have no quarrel with you.”

“Yeah? What changed?” 

“Nothin’,” the man replied, his eyes saying words his mouth didn’t. “Just that I think you’re a wronged party. Am I right?”

Gared turned to the stream, the memories rushing back to him. The singing, the dancing, how the wine flowed, and then the burning and screaming and the snarling faces of those holding the swords. “Yeah…” Gared said, barely a whisper.

The harpsichordist stood next to the squire, taking in the sight of the streams. Leaning in close to Gared, he said lowly, “Things are ‘bout to get bloody. No one who took part in that is safe. Not a one.”

Gared jumped back, nearly dropping Rhaenys. He tried to get words out, but the man turned on his heel and walked off towards the village, still plucking the strings. “If you ever run into the Brotherhood without Banners, tell ‘em you know Tom o’ Sevens.” Turning back, he smiled once more. “And if I were you, lad, I wouldn’t carry that sword so openly. It really is a beautiful piece of work.”

And with that, he left Gared, the harp still humming its melody. That name he mentioned sounded so familiar; some lot of bandits who harassed the Lannisters wherever they turned. He’d heard tales of their leader, a man who had been hanged and run through and yet couldn’t be killed. It was all like to be a legend, a folk tale the singers made up. But he did raise a point about the sword. Gared looked it over; he hadn’t given a thought to how he’d keep it away from prying eyes.

Slipping Rhaenys under a nearby bush, Gared made his way into the village of Sevenstreams. He had seen many a hovel during his travels with Lord Forrester, and once he’d seen one, he’d seen all of them. A motley assortment of cobbled homes lined the path, the flowing streams rolling on by. It was a sight more active than his home village, at the least. Men stumbled out of a tavern while women of the village called out to any nearby. One, scantily dressed and with a growing belly, whistled to Gared as he passed her, but he paid her no mind. He found what he was looking for by the blacksmith’s. Swords and axes lined a wall by a blazing forge, and a pile of scabbards sat behind it, the smell of fresh leather wafting through his nose. The smith had stepped out, leaving all unguarded. Leafing through the pile, he found plenty of short-sword scabbards, none of any use to him.

 _Footsteps. Laughter._ He moved quicker, madly tearing at the scabbards before he was caught and reported to the lords who owned the land. He feared them far more than the Wall at that point. _Found it!_ He held up a scabbard fit to hold a greatsword, admired it in the flames, and quickly picked up a smaller scabbard before dashing around the back of the shop and making a mad sprint back to where the greatsword lay. He didn’t dare turn around until he reached the stream, half-expecting the smith to be bearing down on him with a hammer. But none had yelled after him, there had been no screams of burglary. His heart dancing madly in his chest, he finally looked back; the people of the village went on with their business as if he’d never interloped. 

If Lord Forrester knew that he was stealing from good people, he’d have been so ashamed of Gared. He wished he had money to pay for scabbards, but he’d used every last groat to get across that fucking river. _Sorry, I promise it’s only being used for good._ He felt around under the bush until his hand found Rhaenys, and he pulled the mighty greatsword to a stand before shoving it as deep as possible into the larger scabbard. He proceeded to slide the smaller scabbard over the sword’s hilt before tucking it into the larger piece and gave it a glance over. It wasn’t the ideal solution, but in light of any better ones, he pressed on, strapping the sword across his back.

The second walk through Sevenstreams started off less hurried than the first. Though a few turned their eyes at him, they otherwise paid him no mind and went to go to work or got drunk or whatever they normally did. If Tom o’ Sevens had heard of the Red Wedding, had these folk as well? And what was the Brotherhood’s part in all this? 

Funny, as much different as Sevenstreams was from his village, he still felt at place there. He’d have to be sure and stop by his farm on the way back to Ironrath, hug his parents, jape with Saede, play with little Jenna. Saede would’ve marched off to war with him, but his father was a traditional sort, desiring a suitable match for her. “Now that we have names, it shan’t be long before we’re raised to nobility!” his father had once said. Would it be if that were true. His father harbored ambitions of marrying Saede off to one of the Forrester boys. Rodrik had been betrothed to Elaena Glenmore and Asher was off in the Free Cities doing Gods only knew what, but Ethan and her weren’t so far apart in age. Gared doubted that either Saede or Ethan would’ve cared for such a marriage, nor was Lady Elissa like to see her son married off to a pig farmer’s daughter, regardless of what she told Gared. “You are a part of this house. Your birth needs not matter here.”

As Gared walked through the village, he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He turned to the tavern, where several men stood outside, drinking. One of them, muscular and with tangled blonde hair, eyed Gared while clasping a mug. _Just keep walking. Don’t look, don’t look._ But temptation abhorred refusal, and Gared looked all the same. The same big-bellied whore was now talking up a lean, black-haired man. He came onto her, his hand going to her thigh as she slurred drunkenly. The blacksmith and tanner were back at work on their forges, neither looking at Gared, but an uneasy feeling swept the air all the same. He spared a glance behind him, thought he saw the blonde man move across the path to the brothel. _Not much further._ The village opened up just ahead, giving way to a series of peaceful brooks. He could no longer restrain himself and broke into a jog, and as he edged closer, a run.

He ran from Sevenstreams, ran alongside the Blue Fork as it split off in opposite directions, ran in the direction of Hag’s Mire. He had seen this part of the Riverlands once before; he knew that the ancient castle of Oldstones lay somewhere within the rolling streams and rills, at the top of a hill now covered in shrubbery, its once proud history now lost to time. He ran until his breath took leave of him, and he had to stop. He found a pine tree standing on the bank of the Blue Fork and leaned into it, Rhaenys sliding from his sweat-stained coat. Hag’s Mire was visible in the distance, but he’d not make it there while his heart was aflame. 

He took a drink of water from the canteen and wiped his mouth before running a handful of water through his long, auburn hair. The sun hung over him, cutting through a half-clouded sky. _What of the Glovers? What befell them?_ Robett had been captured at Duskendale before Robb exchanged him for Martyn Lannister, but Gared knew not where he now was. Hopefully he’d stay far away from the Twins. As for Lord Galbart, he had departed the Northern host before they marched to their slaughter. But where... _The Neck!_ Lord Forrester had said that King Robb, before camping at the Twins, sent Lord Glover and Lady Maege Mormont out to Seagard. From there they’d sail up the Neck and join with the Reeds, allowing the Northern army to bypass the Ironborn at Moat Cailin and mount a rear attack. _An attack that will now never take place._ Could they have still been there? 

“Oi! Look what we got here, Finn!” The voice was deep and raspy, and not at all pleasant for Gared’s ears.

He turned down the path, where two men stood watching him, their stances aggressive, their hands on their hilts.

“Yeah, that’s him right there,” one of them said. Gared recognized him at once; he had been outside the tavern in Sevenstreams. “And what’s that he’s got there?”

The two advanced on him. He looked down at Rhaenys, thought of unsheathing it, but if those two had more stones than wits, Gared was not like to swing the sword fast enough to take both of them. Lord Gregor, sturdy and built like a bull, would’ve had no such issue. Nor would have Rodrik. 

“He was runnin’ like a maid who’d just had her blood,” said the first man, another familiar face. He was dark of hair, thin, with scratches across his cheek and a pair of dagger tucked into his breeches. His voice was as thick as an oak tree. “What we’re ya doin’ back there, boy? Out by the smith’s?”

“None of your fucking concern!” shouted Gared, his hand hovering by his dirk. “Run on back to your whore!”

The other man, blonde and with thick, tree-like muscles, pulled a dagger from his waist. “That a sword there? You steal it like you did the scabbards?” his voice was of a higher note, almost sweet-sounding. “Ought to turn you over to the lords here. Bet they’d rightly reward us.”

As the muscled man moved in closer, Gared got a look at his dagger. It was no simple knife; the steel was ornate and freshly cut, and from under the thug’s hand, a familiar image glistened on the hilt - that of a beautiful maiden, naked as the day she was born, white silk swirling around her as she stood against a blue sky.

A smirk crossed Gared’s face. “Yeah? You come by that blade honest? The Pipers just gifted it to you, did they?”

“Stones on this one, Finn,” said the raspy-voiced man.

Finn turned to his partner and barked, “Shut it!” He held the dagger at eye level, pointing it straight at Gared’s throat. “And don’t you concern yourself with how I got it. Let’s just say the lordling it belonged to won’t have use of it no more.”

The other man moved closer to Gared, his hands never leaving the hilts of his daggers. “Why don’t you give us that sword, boy? Give it to us and we’ll forget we saw you steal anything.”

“They gonna ignore your friend here’s knife too?”

He smiled, a wide, evil smile crossing his thin lips. “How ‘bout a better offer?” and with one quick motion, he shoved Gared against the tree and pressed a dagger to his throat. “You give us that sword and I don’t give you a second fuckin’ mouth.”

The steel was cold, its teeth still rusted with bits of blood. Gared could not part with Rhaenys less he bring further dishonor to his house, but nor could he walk with his throat bared open for all to see. The brute looked down at Gared’s dirk and snatched it up.

“You ever even used this?” he asked while looking it over, and then flicked it into the stream.

“Killed a man with it last night. He looked scarier than you.” _Smart, very smart._

The scarred thug laughed before he brought his free hand across Gared’s face. The taste of blood was like copper, bitter and mirthless.

“When I lived in Flea Bottom, they’d pay me seven silvers to kill a man,” the thug whispered into Gared’s ear. “Knight, lord, didn’t fuckin’ matter, that bugger would never see the sun again. You think I’d give two shits about slicing your fuckin’ neck open, boy?”

“Give it a bloody rest, Karl!” Finn said from behind him. “I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of you goin’ on about Gin Alley and how you were such a ‘fuckin’ legend’ there! No one gives two bloody shits about you, or Gin Alley, or any fuckin’ thing of it! It’s all horseshit!”

Karl released his grip on Gared and turned to Finn, now pointing the dagger at him. “You gonna fuckin’ make me, you shit? Can’t even face a man when you kill him, your craven arse has to cut his throat when he’s fuckin’ unawares.”

The sound of a twig snapping rang through Gared’s ears.

“Wait!” Finn shouted. “What was that?”

“You tryin’ to fuck me over, Finn? That it? After all I’ve done for you, you ungrateful shit?”

As the two argued back and forth, Finn holding onto his stolen dagger with a death grip, Gared felt around the tree until his hand touched rough stone. As Karl turned back to him, the rock smashed into his face, bouncing off bone and sending the scarred thug to the grass. Finn grabbed hold of Gared, the larger man pushing him into the tree like he were a sack of feathers. As Finn’s elbow pushed down on Gared’s throat, Gared instinctively lifted his knee into the bigger man’s groin, eliciting a loud groan. Quickly, Gared buried his foot in Finn’s chest and jumped on him only to be thrown to the ground. Karl stood over him, wiping the blood from his face and gripping his dagger.

“Got me real fuckin’ good, didn’t you?” He laughed, murder in his eyes. “Now for that I’ll just take the sword and fuckin’ cut you open.”

“Karl…” Finn’s voice broke. “Look!” 

Karl breathed a raspy sigh. “Finn, shut the fuck up, would ya?”

“Stop being a fucking arse and look!” Finn grabbed Karl, only for the lean man to press his dagger against Finn’s throat.

“You two done neckin’?” a girl’s voice yelled out. “Or are ye gonna kill each other then? Do it! Saves me the arrows!”

Gared turned to see a girl, lithe and petite, with long silver hair, holding Finn and Karl at bay with a bow. Next to her stood a gangly, scruffy-looking fellow with a lock of brown hair, holding a sword. 

“You gonna do as she says?” he asked. “Or you gonna drop those fuckin’ blades?”

Finn quickly threw his dagger onto the leaves. Karl hesitated a moment, looking for any sign of weakness. 

The girl pulled on her bowstring so quickly that before Gared could blink, an arrow passed by Karl’s face before slamming into the tree trunk above Gared’s head. Karl looked at the girl in shock as she nocked another arrow. He shook his head, cursing under his breath, before throwing the dagger down at his feet.

“The other one, too, fucker!” she ordered.

“Little one’s got more stones than you, Finn,” said Karl, tossing the other dagger away. 

“Fuck off!” Finn barked back.

The silver-haired girl looked over at Gared, and then at the scabbards lying by the tree. “Is that...Cotter, bring it here!”

“I told you not to fuckin’ call me that!” said the man holding the spear.

“Quiet your bloody mouth!” she said with a roll of her eyes. “You!” she called to Gared. “Hand it over!”

Gared picked up the sword, holding it tightly across his chest. “I can’t…”

“You want one between your fuckin’ eyes, boy?” she said before leveling her bow on him. 

“I’d...do what she says?” suggested Karl, gesturing to her.

 _Forgive me, my lord._ He handed Rhaenys to Cotter, who greedily snatched it up and tore off the scabbards. His green eyes opened wide at the sight of the greatsword, its steel glistening in the sun.

“Sylvi...is this…” he began.

She looked it over, the bow still pointing at the three men in front of her. “Valyrian? No. My da had a Valyrian sword, and that ain’t one.”

“Could be worth somethin’ though…”

“No! You can’t!” Gared screamed, causing all to turn to him. “Please, you mustn’t.”

“And why not?” asked Cotter. “What’s it worth to you, anyway?”

“It was my lord’s sword. He was killed, and he wanted me to bring it back to his family.” Gared didn’t know why he said it, as if a few cut-throats gave a toss about any of that shit. 

Indeed, Karl just laughed derisively. “Oh, so noble of you, milord.”

“If your lord is dead, then he won’t mind what we do with his sword then, now will he?” asked Sylvi, stealing another glance at Rhaenys.

It was the last move Gared had, a last desperate Cyvasse maneuver. “You haven’t heard then? About the wedding?”

Finn scoffed and said, “Never was one for marriage…” eliciting laughter from the rest.

“The King in the North, he was at his uncle’s wedding this past night,” said Gared, breath running ragged. “At the Twins, just across the river.”

A smirk rested on Cotter’s dirt-stained face. “Well that all sounds very nice, but…”

“He was murdered. He and near everyone else who went south with him. Butchered like fucking dogs when they were given bread and salt.”

The smirk on Cotter’s face died, and Finn nervously glanced around, the faint sound of his heart beating. 

Sylvi lowered her bow and her eyes drifted about. “That’s...what...how…”

“Who by?” asked Cotter, his confident tone replaced with panic.

“Walder Frey,” answered Gared. “And Roose Bolton. And the Lannisters too, most like.”

Finn crossed his arms, not in defiance but in shock, but said nothing, his eyes never coming up from the grass. Karl looked uninterested, and even showed a smirk.

Her face twisted into anger. “I don’t give a fuckin’ toss about kings and queens and lords and whoever bloody else. All they do is keep the rest of us down,” she said. “But that’s...who could fuckin’ do that? Kill a man the right way, not while he’s bleedin’ helpless!”

“So?” Karl finally spoke. “Some high and mighty king gets stabbed at dinner. Why should anyone give a fuck?”

“You’re really takin’ the piss right now?” asked Finn. “Did you not just hear what happened?”

“I did, and I don’t fuckin’ care,” replied Karl. “And why should you, huh? You think killing that Piper was honorable?”

“He swung a bloody blade at me!”

The two went back and forth, and Cotter tried to intervene, only to be dragged into the argument. Gared had enough.

"All of you, shut the fuck up!” he screamed, his voice echoing across the trees and causing all three men to stare at him, stunned into stony silence. 

Sylvi smiled, giving him a playful wink.

“I really don’t fucking care how any of you feel about it,” he went on. “But I need to get back home, to the North, and I’m taking that fucking sword with me if I have to gut all three of you arseholes with it!”

Karl raised his hand. “Now look here, you little shit…”

“Wait! Karl!” Finn pushed his way past his scarred partner. “You’re goin’ North? I’m comin’ with you. Riverlands won’t be safe no more.”

“You?” snapped Cotter. “You can fuck right off with that.”

Finn towered over Cotter, looking down at him. “One more fuckin’ word…” 

_“Hey! Enough!”_ screamed Sylvi, her bow aimed squarely at Finn. “You sure as shit aren’t doin’ any bloody thing to my brother, less you want me to gut you like a fuckin’ fish!”

Gared looked around at all of them. For this to work, they would have to trust one another. “I’m going to Seagard, getting passage to Rillwater Crossing. You’re all welcome to come, but please, I need that sword.” He extended his hand to Cotter, who regardless of what he had heard, still looked most unhappy about parting with his newfound treasure. “Please. You won’t allow this insult to the Gods to stand, give me the sword so I can make some of this right.”

Cotter looked about, first at Sylvi - who betrayed no emotion - and then at the sword. He took another look at its beautiful edge, still coated with blood, before turning his gaze back to Gared. He sighed and said, “Fine,” and shoved Rhaenys back into the squire’s hands. “But you try to fuck us over…”

“Don’t talk to me about honor. Just know that I’m as good as my word,” was Gared’s reply, before leaning down to pick up the Piper dagger while Finn protested. “Don’t fuck me over, Finn, and I won’t tell everyone what _you_ did.”

Finn rolled his eyes and sighed petulantly, but did not say another word. Karl leaned over to pick up his daggers, but Cotter smacked his hands away with the flat of his sword. 

“Oh, you think your arse is carryin’ anythin’ with an edge? Fuck off,” said Sylvi in a mocking tone.

Karl moved on her, but between her bow and Cotter’s spear, he thought the better of it and sufficed by elbowing the tree trunk with such force that its branches rocked and spilled half a dozen pines onto the leaves below. Cotter grabbed the daggers from the grass and handed one to Sylvi, sliding the other in his breeches.

“We’ve got a ways to go before Seagard,” said Gared. “Whoever’s coming better move fast.”

They set off towards the village of Hag’s Mire, smoke rising in the distance, an uneasy silence between all of them. While they walked, others passed them by. Men in padded armor and cloaks, with sigils from all different houses - from the dragons and towers of House Vance to the maple leaves of House Blanetree - passed them by, walked with them, all towards the same destination. Their armor torn and their faces dirty, the only desire these men had was a stiff pint.

“Who are all of them?” Sylvi asked apprehensively.

Gared looked on, towards the village. “Loyal men. Once word of the wedding gets out, the Riverlands will be crawling with them.”

Though Sylvi braced her bow, she did not raise it, nor did the others think about doing battle. It was just the squire and the bandits and the refugees, all headed towards the same destination. 

To home, wherever that may have been.

\---

To the fucking weasel Lord Walder Frey,

You Freys aren’t very smart now, are you? Many in the Riverlands wish to see you put to the sword for what you lot did. Murdering your guests after inviting them into your castle, after offering them your hospitality, and yet you think to just frolick about like a bunch of fucking mummers? You’re not doing too good a job at keeping an eye on your kin, are you? What of your grandson, the one you call Petyr Pimple? Seen him about lately? No? So sorry to hear that. But not to worry, Petyr is safely with us. Though really, a man with a wife being so open with whores? The Gods certainly did not gift you lot much in the way of wits.

So here’s how this is going to go. If you want to see Petyr Pimple returned safely, you’ll send one of your kin to Oldstones the day after the morrow. Only one. Do not think to bring more than that. They’ll come with a hundred gold dragons. We know you Freys are good for it, taking your tolls for so many centuries from any who wish to cross the Trident. A hundred gold dragons, the day after the morrow at Oldstones for the life of Petyr. Do not think to play games, or else your grandson will hang from the trees. It’s such a lovely castle, so rich with history. He’s quite enjoying himself right now. But that shan’t last if you don’t do as you’re told. We so hope you will see reason. 

Signed,

The Brotherhood without Banners

\--Ransom letter delivered to the Twins after the kidnapping of Petyr Frey, some time after the Red Wedding, 300 AC

  
  


\---

“By the Seven, it’s all true. What has my family done? Do they realize just what they’ve done? For generations, those in the Seven Kingdoms have looked down on my house. A bunch of upjumped petty lords who built their seat over a river crossing while extorting those who wish to cross, they say. What horseshit! Do the Redwynes not owe their fortune to the Arbor Red that grows where they make home? Do the Velaryons not profit from the mighty vessels they’ve built, and the voyages made to foreign lands? Do the Lannisters truly roll their eyes when they’ve thrived on gold mining in the Westerlands since the days of Lann the Clever? Why then should they all cast weary glances at House Frey for making their own fortune? 

It is true enough that my uncle has continued to line his breeches through most dishonorable means. No doubt he’ll claim the right of vengeance for Robb Stark breaking his betrothal, but did that betrothal come through mutual understanding or because he wouldn’t allow the Northerners to cross elsewise? When I get back to Westeros, I have to know the truth. I imagine my family will tell me all sorts of tales only fit for songs and mummer’s plays, but at least then I’ll know who to separate between the liars and the just. Keira is taking this the hardest out of all of us; I still have the letters she wrote of her tales of battle, fighting alongside the likes of Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, and Wendel Manderly, all honorable men and women she tells me. Not deserving of being lambs to the slaughter. No one is. No one ever is.

What has happened to our family? Would Forrest the Fool or Sabitha have ever stood for this? Of course not! They happily supported Rhaenyra during the Dance, the thought of such a craven betrayal would not dare ever cross their minds. And now our house is cursed. And for what? I need to know the truth.

\--Journal of Bryden Frey, written in late 299 AC

\---

“Ryman, Edwyn, Black Walder, Jared, Hosteen, the whole fucking lot of them! How they smile and dance one minute before unsheathing their daggers the next. Why was I born into such a craven, shit family? 

Mayhaps it makes me blasphemous to say it, but should I ever be in a position to sink my dagger into their cold hearts, I shall not hesitate to take it. They are no family of mine. I will never forgive, nor forget what they did to my king and all those loyal.”

“And neither will we. The North will remember this, and never, ever forget it.”

\--Conversation between Keira Rivers and her alleged paramour, Camylle Glenmore, late 299 AC


	5. A Blizzard of Hail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet, peaceful morning in Ironrath is shattered as word of a savage attack reaches the castle, and Lady Elissa Forrester must help her son Ethan, the new Lord of Ironrath, grow into his role.

The great hall of Ironrath was quiet and still but for the crackle of the hearth. Though cooks and scullions eagerly sat the great oak table that lay on the far side of the hall, they did so quietly, save for the snapping of orders by Brisa, the castle’s ancient cook. Elissa Forrester had known the older woman since she came north so many years past. Gregor had said Brisa was but a mere scullion when his grandfather, Lord Declyn, reigned over the hold. Age may have slowed down her speed, but her tongue lashings had not dulled a day since. 

How she missed Gregor, his soft embrace, his warm smiles, his many japes. The last she had seen her husband was when he marched off to war the year past. He and Rodrik both gone south, while she froze in the north. When she was but a lass playing at her father’s castle by the Mander, she would never have thought this fate for her. But she loved it all the same; the North was so far removed from the south that it may as well have been a separate kingdom, but men and women there were true and loyal, much preferring a sword to a quill, wishing to settle disputes while facing their enemies rather than driving a dagger through their backs.

Every morn, Elissa got up as the sun rose and made her way down to the kitchen, where she directed the staff as they set to work. Brisa may have been the castle cook, but all who resided at Ironrath knew it were Lady Elissa’s recipes, recipes which had been passed down from mother to daughter for as long as House Branfield stood, and so it were that its culinary secrets would live on, even when the great house hadn’t. Elissa wore a green dress with bits of purple, her skirt cut off above her ankles. She wore a pair of matching silver bracelets on both arms, and her strawberry blonde hair was neatly braided. The great oak that sat in front of her was overflowing with strawberry oatcakes, quail eggs, sizzling bacon, rye and barley, buttered biscuits, and honey cakes, and they all lit up under a magnificent wall of windows looking out into the surrounding ironwood valley. No less a feast would be made for the noble men and women of House Forrester.

As Elissa sat a plate of goblets on the oak, her youngest daughter, Talia, sprinted into the dining room, honey blonde hair flowing behind a pale face. 

“And right on time,” said Elissa as she put down the plate. “You wouldn’t wake up if there were a battle going on outside your window, but you’ll never miss a morn to get plump.”

Talia met her mother in a hug, and received a peck on the cheek. “Only because you’re cooking, mother.”

“And what of me?” asked Brisa, standing nearby. “I help too, ya know!”

“Both of you are just wonderful,” said Talia, blushing. “I can’t choose a favorite.”

Elissa smiled and patted Talia on the back. “Well said, sweet thing.”

Brisa laughed and strode off, the other scullions following close behind. Elissa sat across from her daughter, a great plate of pomegranates separating them. Talia had a mug of almond milk to drink, while Elissa drank from a cup of mint tea. Elissa watched in amusement as Talia attacked a dish of sausages, happily devoured a side of peaches, and washed it all down with milk.

Elissa looked over at her daughter with a raised eyebrow. “Really, Talia. None else have arrived and you’re almost finished!” 

Talia smiled widely, her face covered in bits of berry juice. “Just your excellent cooking, mother. And I’m so famished when I wake.”

“By the Seven!” Elissa exclaimed. “What am I ever to do with you?” Looking around, she saw no sign of Ethan. _Any other day and they’re inseparable._ “Where’s your brother? Not hungry now?” _Most unlikely. As much as Talia can eat, Ethan makes her look restrained when he’s supping._

“Still half asleep,” Talia said while chewing on a piece of bacon. “Looks as if he got into the good wine last night.”

“Talia!” The girl had a smile across her face, her teeth holding bits of meat and fruit between them.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Elissa’s brother, Malcolm, strode into the dining room. “Morning everyone,” he said as he glanced about. “Or, morning to all here.”

Talia perked up as he took his seat beside Elissa. “Back so soon, Uncle? Find a wife yet?”

Elissa nearly spat out her tea, her daughter smirking while the minty liquid sloshed around her mother’s mouth.

Malcolm leaned over and ruffled Talia’s hair. “Afraid not, sweet thing.”

As much as her daughter’s mouth ran ahead of her mind, what she said was true enough. Malcolm often disappeared for days at a time, the Mother only knew where he went. 

“I seem to recall father having some words after you rejected his fifth proposal,” said Elissa, never resisting the urge to poke at her older brother. “What was it he said again?”

A grin wrapped around his blonde, bearded face. “I believe it was, ‘You pig-headed shit’.”

“No, that was after you shunned Sanya Costayne,” she found it hard not break into laughter. “When you wouldn’t even accept Lindsey Roxton, I…” she could no longer help it, and her words ran thick with merry. “Was it ‘bloody…’”

“‘...sodding little suckling’,” they both answered as one. “And that was just the beginning. I lost track of it for an hour after,” Malcolm finished.

Oh, how their lord father wished to defenestrate Malcolm for his wandering ways. Talia sat there, wide-eyed and happy, as the tales of youth drifted over the breakfast table. She had heard well enough that talk from Rodrik to no longer flinch at it. 

“How ‘bout you tell us about that time you refused to dance with Maerilyn Peake?” a low, gruff voice came from the entryway. Duncan Tuttle, Castellan of Ironrath, stood with his hands clasping his trousers and a cat’s grin on his mouth. “I never tire of hearing that one.”

“Like I’d ever wish to dance with a bloody Peake,” said Malcolm as he spread jam over a biscuit. 

Duncan sat next to Talia, smiled at the girl and exchanged pleasantries. Not a moment after came Ethan, stumbling into the hall, his clothes wrinkled and puffing, his eyes still glazed. With him came Ryon, the youngest child, gliding in the room so fast that he nearly knocked over the goblets of tea and ale. He jumped into the seat next to Elissa and wrapped his arms around her. 

“Are Father and Rodrik coming home today?” his voice was awake with excitement. “I have so much to ask!”

“Soon, my son,” said Elissa, and her mind wandered to them. The wedding of Lord Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey was the night past, and Gregor and Rodrik were to be marching north that as the sun rose.

“Wait ‘til they see how much you’ve grown, Ryon,” said Duncan as he poured some ale. “They may not even recognize you!”

Ryon smiled at Duncan before grabbing at the bacon and sausage in front of him. Ethan had sat down on the opposite side of his twin sister and was staring into a cup of almond milk.

“Nice of you to finally join us,” said Elissa, her voice breaking. “You’re usually first to rise.”

Ethan slumped over the oak table, groaning as he scooped food onto his plate.

“I told you, mother. He was up late drinking.”

“You brought the bottle up, sis,” said Ethan, his speech slightly slurred. “Don’t blame me.”

Talia laughed uproariously, enough to lift her brother’s spirits. Elissa smiled at her children as they continued teasing one another. _Gods be good, it’s like Malcolm and I at that age._

So many new faces had wandered into the dining hall, and yet there were faces still missing. Ser Royland and Maester Ortengryn always broke their fast with the rest of the house, and yet they were both running late that morn. More seats, those close to Elissa’s heart, also sat empty. Gregor and Rodrik, off at war. Asher, wild Asher, across the Narrow Sea going on three years past, and sweet Mira in service to the Manderlys of White Harbor. Elissa and Ethan had performed a capable job of holding court in Gregor’s absence, but the smallfolk missed their lord and his smiling, sarcastic ways.

“Have any ravens arrived yet?” asked Talia as she brushed her hair. “Rodrik promised he’d write before leaving the Twins.” She looked out the window, her face full of yearning.

_The maester would know, but the maester is making his absence clear._

"How many men do you think they killed?” Ryon’s mouth moved far faster than his mind. “A hundred? More?”

"What kind of question is that?” Ethan snapped. “You think they can keep track of how many Lannister shits they’ve gutted?”

Everyone broke into laughter, everyone except Elissa, who’s face grew flush. She shook her head at her son’s lack of decorum at the breakfast table. _Don’t laugh, don’t laugh._ Ethan was always ready with a quip for near everything anyone said, no matter the circumstance.

With laughter came the sound of footsteps running through the hall, the sounds reverberating off the ironwood tiles.

“My Lady! Duncan!” Alanna Grayson rushed into the dining hall, short of breath. 

Elissa and Duncan jumped up at once to intercept her. The girl was so run down that she could barely stand. 

“Tell us what’s the matter,” said Duncan. “Why are you running ragged?”

She ran her hands through her long, chestnut hair, the fingerless gloves she wore nearly tearing strings off. 

“Alanna!” Elissa laid her hand on Alanna’s shoulder, and could feel her body seizing in every which way. 

“I...I honestly think it’d be best for you to come and see yourselves.”

All of them followed Alanna out through the great hall and past the huge ironwood doors that barred entrance to the castle. The small trading center outside, usually bustling with commerce, was now alive with a different sort of energy. Guards, servants, and smallfolk alike stood shoulder-to-shoulder, murmuring and pointing towards something unseen. Elissa pushed her way through the crowd towards the portcullis, where Ser Royland Degore was busy helping Josera Snow down off a horse.

“Just breath, Josie! Keep the Gods waiting a while longer,” Royland said as he gently helped Josera down. There was a tourniquet wrapped around his thigh, and blood had pooled so thick onto it that it was nought but red. Duncan rushed to catch Josie before he fell to the ground.

“Ethan, Talia, stay here and don’t let Ryon see!” she whispered to the twins, and instinctively, Ethan spun his younger brother around and covered his eyes as the boy protested. 

Another horse stood nearby, and beside it was Josie’s twin sister, Elsera. She was covered in blood from her face to her feet, and in her arms was a little girl, still as calm water. A woman younger than Elissa, her face bruised, her clothes torn, and her shoes missing waited next to Elsie, tears streaming down her face.

Royland quickly turned his head, sweeping the crowd with bitter eyes. “What the fuck are you lot standing around for staring? Bloody help them!”

At once, several guards moved in close to Elsera. Alanna took the little girl from Elsie’s arms and looked down at her. A bloody tourniquet was wrapped around her shoulder, and the only sounds she made were low groans.

Elissa laid the back of her hand across the girl’s forehead. _Ice cold._ “Alanna, get her inside! Now!”

Alanna nodded and rushed to the doors of Ironrath, whispering sweetly to the girl in her arms. 

“Elsie, tell me,” Elissa felt her fists clench. “Who did this to that girl?”

“Whitehill bastards came and razed the village,” said Elsie, her voice choking. “This was their work.”

_Gods, no._ She had known Ludd Whitehill for many years; he was many things - a bully, a craven, a braggart, but she had thought harming defenseless children was below even him. _What a fool I was._

“Please, milady. Please save my daughter,” the bruised woman could barely get that out. “I’ve lost so much…”

Elissa clasped both hands on the woman’s shoulders and said, “You have my word. No further harm will befall your family while I still draw breath.”

“I’ll see to it myself if I have to,” said Elsie, her nostrils flaring.

Malcolm was looking under a blood-stained sheet on the back of Josie’s horse, but immediately looked away and vomited his breakfast all over the grass. 

“Bunch of bloody butchers…” Malcolm said, wiping off his mouth.

Elissa rushed over and her hand moved to the sheet, but it was intercepted by Malcolm. “Don’t. Do you recognize any of them?”

There had been little time to make proper introductions, what with a child’s life hanging in the balance. Elissa thought to give a flippant response, but held off.

“Can’t see a thing under the bruises.”

“All of ‘em are Duncan’s kin,” said Malcolm. “His nieces and good-sister.”

Elissa’s heart sank; Duncan didn’t even look like he recognized them. _Ludd Whitehill has much and more to answer for._ “Where’s Saemas?” she realized that the farmer was not among the refugees. 

Her brother shook his head. “Probably nowhere good.”

“By the Gods…” Elissa saw Duncan rushing back towards them. 

_“Tasha!”_ He ran into the arms of his brother’s wife. “Little Jenna...” he whispered. “Who did this? Who are the bastards that fucking did this?!” 

Tasha’s face was red, her hair tangled all over. Talia had moved away from her siblings to comfort the woman, and Elsie was hugging her tightly.

A look of realization crossed Duncan’s face. “Where’s Saeamas? And Saede?”

His good-sister let out a wail, her head turned towards Josie’s horse. Duncan followed her gaze, and when he saw the blood-covered sheet, he said no more. He just sank to his knees and began sobbing.

“I’m so sorry, Duncan…” It was all Elissa had for him. A growing fire swept through her body, and she turned to Elsera. “Come with me.” Her voice was cold steel.

The two women strode down the courtyard towards the castle doors.

Ryon had broken free of Ethan’s grasp and was now staring, eyes wide, at the carnage. “Mum, what’s going on? They won’t tell me…”

“Please, my son. Don’t look,” she said as she leaned down to Ryon. “Ethan, watch him.”

As Elissa and Elsie walked towards the castle, Ethan called out, “Mother, who did this?”

“Men without honor…” Elissa said, barely whispering it.

They crashed through the great doors of Ironrath, nearly running over a pair of guards in their path. Alanna had taken Jenna into the solar by the great hall, but Maester Ortengryn was still absent. _Fine bloody time for you to be missing._

“Where’s the maester?” Elissa asked as she entered the solar. Jenna was lying on a bed, eerily still, while Alanna watched over her. Josera was sitting down on a rocker on the opposite side of the room, clutching his thigh and wincing in pain. “I swear, if he is not down here…”

“My men went to look for him as soon as I gave word,” she replied. “Ser Royland joined the hunt as well.” 

“Worry about the girl, my lady,” said Josera. “Mine can hold.”

The Lady of Ironrath looked at Josera’s thigh, congealing blood dripping onto the tiles. “No one else is dying here today.”

As Elsie stayed with her brother, Elissa walked out into the great hall, all silent aside from the crackles of the hearth. “Where is Maester Ortengryn?” she called out to no one in particular. _“Where is the fucking maester?! Get his arse down here right now! Right bloody now!”_

She didn’t have to wait long. The young maester rushed into the great hall, flanked by Ser Royland and Alanna’s guards.

“I came as soon as I heard, my lady. I…”

“I don’t want to hear your bloody excuses,” Elissa barked. “A little girl is dying in here, and my son has a knife wound the size of an apple in his leg. If you don’t save them, I will hold you personally responsible.”

Ortengryn looked to protest, but Elissa’s cold glare stopped him in his tracks. He hurried into the solar, his chain clinking as he did. 

Royland’s arms were crossed, and he shook his head bitterly. “Found him in the fuckin’ rookery just writing bloody letters. Like that ink’s gonna heal a knife wound.”

“Did Josie say what happened?” she asked hopefully.

The master-at-arms hung his head. “Not much. Just that Whitehill men led the attack.” His face grew tight, the scars on his cheek bulging. “We had a fuckin’ pact signed and everything! No more fightin’ until Robb was victorious! And they break their bleedin’ word? Bunch of craven shits…”

Elissa looked towards the solar, where Ortengryn was busy at work on Jenna. “Let us find the truth of it,” and they went straight for the twins. Elsie was holding her brother’s hands as he grimaced from the wound. 

“Josie, Elsie, tell us everything.”

  


The flames of the hearth flickered as the logs burned. It was the only noise that echoed through the hall. Elissa stared into the flames, drinking a goblet of wine as tears fell from her eyes. She was far from the only one; Talia held Ryon in her arms, fresh tears on both faces, while Ethan stared out the window, his face puffy and red. Royland paced around with a wine goblet, his boots making scuff marks on the tiles, while Malcolm sat quietly and drank from a goblet of his own. Maester Ortengryn had stabilized young Jenna, and the girl would come out of it all in one piece. _All this over a grove of fucking trees._ Josie’s wound was cauterized, and leeches ate away at the inside of his thigh as he sat, while Elsie leaned on the hearth and stared off into the distance. Duncan sat with Tasha, both saying nought a word while Jenna slept. Ortengryn was busy elsewhere stitching up Saede’s body, so she could be consigned to the flames whole.

“Is this what we’ve come to?” Elissa finally broke the silence. “Knifing each other in the backs like common street thugs?”

When she had come to Ironrath all those years ago, Elissa found a different world from the south. The great game was much loathed in the North, and one could confidently say that the Starks and Forresters alike held themselves to such ‘antiquated’ notions such as honor, bravery, and loyalty. She still remembered coming to White Harbor with her parents when she was ten-and-seven, and how besotted she was after Lord Manderly introduced her to Gregor. His smile, his laughter, his warm japes; she could find no southern man of his like. And so it was that they fell for each other over her father’s objections. She was a maid of the Reach, wishing to marry some thirdborn son of a Wolfswood clan, and Lord Maxton was none too pleased with the match. She was meant to marry a Merryweather or an Oakheart, or, her father dreamed, mayhaps even a Redwyne or a Hightower. 

But when Elissa grew great with child, Lord Maxton had little choice but to accept the betrothal. _How his face grew red when I told him!_ Just as he thought he’d made a suitable match for his daughter, this time to Lucan Peake, did he find the truth. Elissa shed no tears for the end of that betrothal; neither her nor Malcolm ever cared a wit for the Peakes, an overly ambitious house that was stuck in their glory days that were the Dance of Dragons. 

And so it was that she had made her home in the North, and truly became one with them. The women of the North - great women like Lady Maege of Bear Island and her wonderful daughters - were far more to her liking than the conniving cutthroats back home. It would’ve been truly difficult to imagine Arya Stark or wild Dacey Mormont in the south. But now, the Starks were gone, the war lost, Northern honor reduced to a mummer’s farce, and above all that, the lives of her husband and son, snuffed out like a candle. She looked at a knife sitting on the small table next to her, and imagined it in her hands, doing horrible things to Roose Bolton and Ludd Whitehill as they screamed in agony. _Walder Frey...any punishment is too good for you._

“We still stand, my lady. And we shall not let this go unavenged,” came the words of Ser Royland. “We should march west, get our allies together, join with the Glenmores. And then march on Highpoint and burn the stone so hot till there’s nought but fuckin’ ashes on that bloody hill.”

“Are you fucking mad, Royland?” Duncan looked up, his voice heavily with weariness. “Do you see an army around here? We’ve barely got enough men to protect the land, and you wish to march to war?”

Royland turned sharply to the castellan. “Once we show our allies that the North bloody well remembers…”

“What allies, Royland?! What fucking allies?” Duncan was on his feet now, pacing about the hall. “Deepwood Motte is gone, the Ironborn saw to that. Who knows where Galbart and Robett are by now, they could be in fucking Ibben for all we know! And everyone else...Grayson, Brownbarrow, Elliver, and the rest, they all sent most of their men south _to fucking slaughter!”_ Duncan’s words had brought everyone in the hall to a standstill, none taking their eyes off the castellan and master-at-arms.

“Wait,” said Elissa. “Royland, what you said about the Glenmores…”

“Aye, the Ryswells didn’t send so many south, they’re still like to be fresh for fightin’.”

“And what bloody good does that do us?” said Duncan with a wave of his hands. “That alliance only stood for as long as Rodrik and Elaena were to be married, and now that…” he stopped short of saying it, choking on the words.

Malcolm sighed as he took another drink from his goblet. “All this is purely academic. Are the Boltons like to stand by while we march on their bannermen?”

“Fuck the Boltons!” barked Elsera. “They get to send their dogs out to butcher us while we sit here and do nothing?”

Now nothing could be heard in the hall over the wave of voices. All parties snapped back and forth at each other while Talia covered Ryon’s ears. _Divided we fall, just as intended._

_“That’s fucking enough!”_ a voice cut above the noise. Ethan was facing the members of his house, stance as if he were ready to run in with a sword. Everyone in the hall stared at him like deer caught in a torch’s fire. “All of you, bickering and screaming like a bunch of bloody southerners! If my father stood here, would you argue so? Would you fight like children were Rodrik here?”

Duncan and Royland both stopped fighting, their eyes full not of anger but regret. “My lord, we must find…” started Royland.

“Yes, I’m aware, ser,” and the new Lord of Ironrath looked out over his court. “All of us standing here have been wronged by lapdogs of that bastard who sits the Iron Throne, him and the Lannisters who stand whispering into his ear. I will never forget how they’ve wronged all in the North and those loyal to the Starks, nor will I forgive how they butchered our family like bloody dogs!” Though Ethan was nought but six-and-ten, his voice carried the weight of a man grown, and none in that hall dared speak a word in protest. “But I will not throw more good men and women into the fire for a hopeless fight while we see enemies wherever we turn.”

As his words settled into the ears of the court, a voice that had thus far been quiet spoke up at last. “But Ethan, we cannot stand by and do nothing!” It was Josera, and he now stood on his feet, limping ever slightly. “The Whitehills drew first blood, and Duncan’s family has the right of justice!”

Duncan grimly nodded, though faintly, while Tasha’s sadness turned to fury.

“They murdered my daughter,” she said through clenched teeth. “Butchered my husband, tried to murder my youngest, may have killed my son, and raped my fuckin’ friends!” she was now screaming, even as Duncan tried to calm her. “I don’t want justice, milord. I want those bastards to suffer like I did.”

Ethan’s eyes drifted skyward, and he inhaled deeply. “I know, my lady. I want everything you desire, and more,” he said. “But we cannot march off to more slaughter until we have the might of an army at our backs. If we all die in battle, you’ll have no justice.”

Elissa smiled at Ethan. “My son speaks truly. We all desire vengeance, and we shall all have it. For the lives taken and the lies spoken, we shall all have justice done. But we must not do so rashly.” 

Another stood beside Elissa. “Josera and I will go into the mountains and rally the support of the clans. The Flints and Norreys alike lost sons at the Twins,” said Elsera.

“I’ll write to Mira in White Harbor,” replied Elissa. “Lord Wyman’s son was part of King Robb’s honor guard, and if I know Wyman, he’ll desire retribution.”

A hand raised, and a soft voice spoke out. “Mother, can I help, too?” It was Talia; her face still ran red with tears, but her voice was strong. “If I can speak to Fiona Glenmore, I know where she’ll stand. And if we could still get their support…”

Elissa beamed at her daughter, so young and yet so determined. “Of course, sweet thing. I’ll gladly welcome what help you can bring.”

Talia smiled for the first time since that same morning. Though Elissa doubted Lord Benjen would pay much mind to his youngest daughter, getting any kind of word out could only have helped. She noticed Ethan had been quiet through all this, simply giving nods in affirmation. But he looked deep in thought all the same.

“Mother, what of Asher?” he asked. “If the Whitehills won’t honor their word, why should we give them any courtesy?”

Elissa had dreamed of seeing her son again. So wild, but so sweet. Always there to be Ethan’s champion, no matter what trouble it brought him. 

“Last I heard from him, he was fighting with the Wolf Pack in Myr,” said Elsie. “Lot of displaced North and Rivermen who had no place to call their homes after the Dance.”

Malcolm rose from his chair. “If I may be so bold, my lord, please give me leave and coin to find your brother.”

“How much coin, Uncle?” 

“Enough to hire a free company,” said Malcolm, a half-smile on his lips. “They don’t exactly come cheap when war calls.”

Elissa put her hands over her brother’s. “You’d sail by yourself?”

“I can hire some guards before I get to Essos, enough in any case to look frightening to stave off any cutpurses or slavers. Don’t worry about me, Elissa. This won’t be my first war.” He ran his hand through Elissa’s hair and smiled sweetly.

Malcolm Branfield, the last son of Lord Maxton Branfield, and the rightful Lord of Brierglenn, now ready and willing to brave all to find his nephew. They had always been close; the Forrester children had no uncles on Gregor’s side, so it fell to Malcolm to help mentor them and be at their sides. Even as her brother’s words were confident, Elissa still remembered all too well what befell the rest of their family, so many years past, when war swallowed the land whole.

Duncan rose and cleared his throat. “My lord, I know you’re getting a lot put on you at once, but we also have to decide on who will be your sentinel. Thermund most like never made it out of the Twins, and…”

“My son will make his choice in due time, Duncan,” said Elissa sternly. “Now, if you’d all give us a moment, please.”

The assembled men and women in the hall curtsied and strode off, leaving only Elissa and Ethan by the warmth of the hearth. Ethan looked back out the window, into the great ironwood valley that had ensconced Ironrath since before the days of Gerhard the Tall.

“How are you feeling, my son?” she asked warmly. 

“I don’t know, Mother. I...I just never quite imagined that…” he trailed off. “It’s all so much.”

She put her hand on his shoulder; he was still smaller than her. The Branfields all grew tall as the day was long. “Take heart, Ethan. Your father never grew up thinking that he’d become lord, either.” Pacing across the carpet, she looked at the great Forrester painting that hung next to the hearth. _Happier times, to be sure._ “I saw my family fall...my parents burned alive, my brothers cut down in battle, my sister being sold off to slavers...my house ruined. I will not let that happen ever again.”

“Can we win, Mother?” he leaned against the window, his hands smudging the glass. “They so outmatch us…”

“Great houses rise and fall with the turn of the moon, and nothing lasts forever. Even the strongest enemy can be beaten when he thinks he is most safe.” She turned to her son, her voice even. “Just remember that you are a Forrester, and we’ve outlasted houses with far more reach than ours. We’ll survive yet.”

The sounds of clinking chains drifted through the hall, heralding the arrival of Maester Ortengryn. “Lord Ethan, Lady Elissa.” He bowed. A Valeman by birth, the maester was a young man with a rich auburn beard and dressed in brown robes, while his chain hung from around his neck. 

“Have you...seen to the girl?” she asked, her eyes looking away from him.

“Indeed I have, my lady. She looks as if none ever laid a hand on her.” He held a piece of parchment in one hand. “There’s something else. A raven from King’s Landing arrived not long ago.”

Ethan turned around and snatched the letter from Ortengryn’s hand, before tearing open the seal and gazing at the contents, his mouth moving along as he read.

“...pay your homage to Lord Roose Bolton, Warden of the North…” He crumpled the parchment in his hand, before slamming a closed fist into the wall. “They desire all houses who were loyal to the Starks to send hostages to King’s Landing.” He unfurled the letter and read it once more. “...where they’ll be well provided for…” And with a dismissive shake of his head, he tossed the letter into the hearth, the parchment roasting over a log. “Taken well care of...as they did Lady Sansa, I’m sure. Marrying a Lannister, of course, who wouldn’t want that?”

Elissa ran both hands through her hair in a flurry. “They’re laughing at us. This is all a game to them.” _Seven hells take Tywin Lannister and that bastard king and the rest of that horrid family._

“It may not be the worst idea,” said Ortengryn. “Proving your loyalty to the crown would go a long way towards securing House Forrester’s position.”

The Lady of Ironrath glared at the maester, a sudden desire to smack him across his bearded face. “Have you taken leave of your bloody senses, Ortengryn? We’re not sending any Forresters south so they can be Lannister playthings!”

“I was merely suggesting…”

“My mother speaks true,” Ethan cut in. “We must keep the Lannisters out of this for as long as possible, but I will not send Talia or Ryon or anyone else in Ironrath so they can be trotted out every time we have a grievance.”

Ortengryn moved to speak more, but thought wiser of it. 

“My lord, my lady!” Alanna Grayson walked through the hall, a group of guardsmen following her. “My men spotted riders bearing the standards of House Bolton coming towards Ironrath. I doubt they’re here to play a game of Cyvasse.”

“Seven bloody hells,” whispered Elissa. “We should’ve known this would happen.”

_And now it truly begins._

  


It was midday when they rode out through the grove of trees that formed a ring around the castle. Elissa rode by her son’s side, while Alanna and Ser Royland followed closely behind, and still more men-at-arms followed their lead. The assembled Northerners were all dressed in cloaks of furs, and all carried daggers, swords, and long-axes. No more craven murders were to be witnessed that day. When they reached the mouth of the valley, Elissa saw the banners - the flayed man of House Bolton, and the stallion of House Ryswell. A group of riders approached, numbering around twenty in total, and their commander gave the order to halt as the Forresters rode into view.

“Lady Forrester,” the commander said. He was a well-built fellow, strong and fierce-looking, cloaked in furs, with a clean-shaven face and a mane of flowing, black hair. “And Lord Forrester, yes?” 

Ethan looked at the man sullenly. “You have business at Ironrath, ser?” he asked.

“Indeed, my lord,” the man took off his gloves and crossed his hands. “Jordyn Ryswell, in service to Roose Bolton, Warden of the North.”

_A title sorely unearned._ “Are you Lord Rodrik’s son?” she asked. She had not seen him before; he bore little resemblance to any of Lord Ryswell’s three sons.

Jordyn Ryswell smiled; it was a kind smile, warm and inviting. “His nephew, my lady. Lord Bolton personally asked me to be of service to him, and I thought mayhaps we’d settle this before it spreads like wildfire.”

“What have you to discuss?” Ethan asked, feigning curiosity. 

“I believe you know, Lord Forrester. There was a little incident at a small village to the south. Lord Whitehill’s men were keeping the peace there when they were set upon.”

“Truly?” Royland said from behind them. “Did they fail to mention the raping and burning they partook in? I feel that’s quite an important part of the tale.”

Ryswell extended his hand and swept it forward. “I know not of which you speak, ser. All we found were bodies, all men. They had been put to the sword. As for the women who you claim were despoiled, it’s as if they had all vanished. No women in the village at all. Most curious.”

Elissa and Alanna exchanged nervous glances at that. 

“And all I know is this,” he continued. “One of Lord Whitehill’s riders says a man and woman, wearing the sigil of your house, turned feral and sacked the village. They tried to protect the smallfolk and were butchered. This boy barely escaped with his life, he said.”

“And you believe every word of it?” Elissa’s nails dug into the horse under her. “Did he sing a song for you? I’d sooner believe _The Dornishman’s Wife_ over whatever shit this boy told you.”

Jordyn Ryswell cast a sharp glance towards her, his eyes dark and alive. “Is it also just a song that one of the men killed happened to be Colin Whitehill, Ser Andros’ son? Is that just a fancy sung by bards?”

There was naught but the sound of squirrels and birds. _A son for a son...still not a worthy trade._

“I thought not,” Jordyn’s face was dark. “They left that part out, I take it. I feel it’s a most important part of the tale. So if I were you, I’d turn the killers over to face the Warden’s justice.”

Elissa glared at Jordyn, failing to realize that her nails were now dug into her horse so deeply that it was starting to whine. 

“If you don’t, then I can’t promise any in Ironrath will be spared. Lord Bolton does not appreciate rebels roaming about, murdering his loyal bannermen.”

“Lord Bolton is still a long ways from home, ain’t he?” said Alanna.

Jordyn tilted his head and replied, “Indeed he is. But in the meantime, I imagine that Lord Whitehill is screaming bloody vengeance, and should I tell him you were not forthcoming, he’s liable to take matters into his own hands. It is my understanding that several members of House Frey will be sailing north shortly under the banner of the Iron Throne, and that Lord Bolton has entrusted several of them to the care of House Whitehill.”

“Men without bloody honor have no place in the North!” Elissa screamed, her voice echoing across the valley.

Ryswell seemed taken aback, for it took him a moment to respond. “I have given you all a choice, my lady. Do not forget that.”

“And I’ve made my choice,” said Ethan. “I know not of these murderers you speak of, only of those who come from across the river valley. Good day, ser.”

“Very well, my lord,” said Jordyn, sporting a look of resignation. “I shall...deliver your words to Lord Whitehill on the nonce. I do apologize that we couldn’t reach an understanding.”

Ethan turned his horse around, Elissa and the others following.

“May the Gods watch over you…” Jordyn said in a murmur.

As they rode back to Ironrath, Elissa smiled warmly at her son, the new Lord of Ironrath. “I’m so proud of you, Ethan. Your father and Rodrik would be, as well.”

“Indeed, my lady,” said Royland. “And I’m happy to serve your son.”

“As am I”, echoed Alanna.

“I’ll need all of your support in the days to come, it seems,” came Ethan’s reply as he looked off into the Wolfswood. “I won’t turn my family over to those bastards as long as I can draw steel.”

The sun shined warmly amidst the cool air, and a gentle breeze drifted over all. It would be a long road still, but Elissa vividly recalled the words of House Branfield, even all these years later.

_Do Not Go Gently._

  


\---

  


PROCLAMATION!

  


299 AC

  


“Two fugitives are being sought out by the noble men and women of the Seven Kingdoms for terrible crimes including murder, rape, and thievery. Their spree has stretched from the slums of King’s Landing to Pinkmaiden in the Riverlands, where it is believed the two have fled. 

Karl of Flea Bottom, a notorious cutthroat and rapist, was last seen in the company of Finn from Hull, a petty thief and cutpurse. They were seen last fleeing from Pinkmaiden Castle, seat of House Piper, for the murder of Ser Romyn Piper, cousin to Lord Clement, along with the vile rape and defilement of Ser Romyn’s wife, Lady Mereya Vypren. 

These two men have defiled and despoiled their way across the realm, and bounties of 500 silver stags apiece have been issued by Lord Commander Addam Marbrand of the City Watch of King’s Landing, along with Lords Rosby of Rosby, Rykker of Duskendale, Mooton of Maidenpool, Roote of Lord Harroway’s Town, Smallwood of Acorn Hall, and Piper of Pinkmaiden. In the name of King Joffrey of House Baratheon, first of his name, let justice be done.”

  


(The poster includes two rough sketches of Finn and Karl.)

  


\--Proclamation drafted by Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing, in late 299 AC

  


\---

  


“If we’re going to take the Iron Throne, we need the support of the noble lords and ladies. We need to sweep down the country, starting from the North and Riverlands.”

“None are quite so keen to support your claim, your grace. And with this butchery done at the Twins, the Lannisters and their bastard king are now more powerful than ever.”

“Which is why I intend to give them something in kind. Justice. They say ‘the North remembers’. Well, let’s bring them over to our side so they can avenge their fallen king and kin. I’ll hang Roose Bolton from a tree and return Winterfell to the Starks, before we turn our focus south and liberate the Riverlands from the craven Freys. No one involved in this massacre will walk away from what they’ve done. Not a one of them.”

“You underestimate Northern stubbornness. Will they really follow you so readily?”

“They will if they seek justice. And I know they will. They cry out for it, they yearn for it, they need it.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll stand with you. Now and always.”

“I know you will. After you reach Eastwatch, set sail with the Lyseni to White Harbor, see if Lord Manderly has an appetite for vengeance.”

“And what of you, your grace?”

“I’m going to Castle Black, to see about this bastard son of Ned Stark’s. And if he so desires, I’ll make him Lord of Winterfell.”

  


\--Conversation between King Stannis Baratheon and Lord Davos Seaworth on Dragonstone, early 300 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene roughly corresponds with bits of the first episode, "Iron from Ice". I say roughly because it diverges quite wildly.


	6. A Silent Wolf Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asher Forrester is keeping himself busy in the Free Cities working for various free companies. Together with his best friend, Beskha the Basilisk, the two believe they're in the middle of a great score. However, a sinister plot threatens to embroil the travelling mercenaries, and House Forrester along with it.

“Lobsters! Come and get yer lobsters!” The Myrish marketplace was bustling with trade, and the smell of the sea mixed with the catch of the day. “Ye won’t get a better price than from my stand. Come and get yer fresh lobsters!”

The sun was coming down on the city like a flurry of arrows, its shine illuminating the Narrow Sea. Asher Forrester passed through the waterfront, rubbing shoulders with merchants, courtesans, and slaves. _And to think this is a “free city”._ In truth, there were far more slaves than free men and women in Myr. So it was across what were called the “Free Cities”, where men, women, and children shackled in chains were put to work in Lyseni pleasure houses and in the manses of Volantese nobles. The thought of it called to mind the fate of Jorah Mormont, lord of a great and honorable Northern house, reduced to selling poachers to pay for his southern wife’s exotic tastes. Ser Jorah had brought such shame on his family that he fled across the sea rather than face Ned Stark’s justice. And so the heroics of the Young Bear, famed for being among the first to besiege Pyke, came to an end. 

_Like I’m so different from he._ Asher had been roaming about the Free Cities going on three years, drifting from free company to free company; the Company of the Cat, the Long Lances, the most terrible Maiden’s Men, and finally the Wolf Pack. It was as good a match as any, made up of those “winter wolves” who’d accompanied Lord Cregan Stark south at the end of the Dance of Dragons and found themselves driftless. Essos was full to bursting with those who claimed ancestry from a dozen houses that no longer stood - Reyne, Greenwood, Frost, Harroway, _Blackfyre._ The Company of the Rose, a stalwart sellsword band of the ever quarrelling Three Daughters, had even been making noise recently about reclaiming their lost lands from the time of The King Who Knelt. Asher chuckled ruefully at the name, questioning why a company made up of Northmen would choose a name that made them sound like bloody Tyrells.

As Asher reached the small hideaway just off the waterfront, he took a look behind him. _No leviathans lurking here._ It was all too easy to lose oneself in Myr, and none paid attention to a simple sellsword. He briskly slipped through the door into a small den, and was greeted by the sound of steel coming unsheathed.

“Not one fucking step further!” the curved sword reached his throat, but he feared not its cold steel. 

“If you want to slice me open, please do it somewhere nicer,” said Asher. “I’d hate to end my days in this shithole.”

Beskha smiled and with a flip of her hand, put the sword back in its scabbard. “One bloody day, Asher, you’ll meet someone who obliges you.”

“But not today.”

They called her the Basilisk; she was a tall, muscular woman with dark hair and matching eyes, a series of scars across her brown Tyroshi skin. A sword and an axe both lay in hilts across her waist, and on her hands were a pair of gloves with the fingers cut off.

A faint moaning came from the other room. 

“Has he been at it all day?” asked Asher.

“Yeah, while you were off frolicking with every whore you could find, I’ve been doing nought but sittin’ here and listening to him bellyache,” Beskha said with a roll of her eyes.

He laughed at that. “You’ll have your fun tomorrow.”

They walked into the other room, where a fat, bruised man leaned against the wall, his arms and feet tied and his mouth gagged shut. He was near naked, but for a strap of torn cloth across his waist. 

“Well, hello Marillos,” said Asher as he leaned down to look at the bound magister. “Making yourself comfortable, I hope?”

Marillos screamed at him from behind his gag. Asher swore he heard “Westerosi cunt” somewhere in there, and gave the magister a swift kick in the chest for his troubles. It was just another bruise of the many that lined his skin.

“How fucking long ‘til Bloodsong gets the coin?” asked Beskha, staring at Marillos. “I’m sick and tired of hearing him bitch all day.”

It had been near a week that the two had been keeping Marillos company, with nought to do all day but drink, fuck, and occassionaly chance to see the occasional mummer’s performance.

Asher shrugged and said, “I haven’t the slightest. Whoever bids highest wins. Lot of unhappy people want to see his head sent back.”

Marillos was the scion of some great Myrish house called Sanatis, part of the conclave that ruled Myr. While the other magisters were plenty busy trying to keep the peace between Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh as war loomed ever closer, Marillos was hard at work keeping the troubles going so that his own purse grew fat. It had been simple enough to grab him; he was a gluttonous, slow to hurry nobleman who would have stood out in a seven-course buffet. The Lyseni envoys who were to ferry him away from Myr no doubt grew red with rage at Marillios’ absence, but Asher cared not a wit for internecine power struggles, big or small. _As long as the coin is good._

“Beskha…” a soft, tired voice came from the bedchamber. “Where are you? Come back to bed, will ya?”

“Who the fuck is that?” Asher asked, startled by the voice.

Beskha shrugged and giggled. “I got bored, so I had some company.”

“You brought someone here? Really?”

“Hey don’t give me shit!” she said, crossing her arms. “Like you haven’t…”

_Can’t argue with that._

Beskha walked into the den and turned to the bedchamber. “Sorry, Lex. Play time’s through.”

_“Fuck!”_ came the girl’s voice. 

A crashing sound came from the bedchamber, followed by seductive groans of pain. Asher looked at Beskha, speechless, and the Basilisk responded with stifled laughter. A moment later, a woman ran out of the bedchamber, wearing nought but a bra and undergarments. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Asher.

“Well, hey there…” she walked around him, feeling his arm. “You’re so strong. I bet you could do a lot with those arms.”

Asher glared at Beskha, who couldn’t contain her merriment. “Plenty when I’m not on the job.”

She giggled in a soft, playful tone. “Come on, Bes. Why do we gotta stop?" she affected a childish tone. "Invite your friend here and we can keep goin’.”

“Beskha and I happen to have business,” Asher said through clenched teeth. He tried focusing on Beskha, but found his eyes drawn back to the woman and her silky, smooth skin. “Mayhaps some other…”

“That accent!” she got excited. “From Westeros? My great-grandmum from way back when was Queen of Lys. Ain’t that excitin’? Came all the way from Stonehelm, she did.”

Asher threw his hands up and sighed. _Why do I even bloody bother?_

A knock came at the door, and Asher breathed a sigh of relief. While normally he’d want to tear the arms off any man who interrupted him while he was in the company of a woman, he welcomed this. _Not at all like with Gwyn._

He nodded to Beskha, who pulled out her sword and took up position next to the door. Asher unsheathed his axe and moved his hand to the door handle.

“Well just bloody run off without me then,” said Lex, pouting.

Beskha raised her fingers to her mouth and shushed her. Asher slowly pulled back on the handle, his axe at the ready. He gave one last look to Beskha, who replied with a nod. Quickly, he threw open the door and came face-to-face with the arrival.

Guyard the Goon stood smiling in the doorway. “Asher! It’s so good to…”

Asher grabbed him by his shirt and threw him inside, while Beskha took a quick look out before slamming the door and locking it.

“Fuckin’ hell, Asher! Why ya gotta be so bleedin’ rough?” Guyard the Goon lay sprawled out on the carpet next to the table. 

Asher sheathed his axe. “Can’t trust many in this fucking city.”

“Or anywhere else around here, for that matter,” said Beskha.

Lex looked at Guyard in contemplation before smiling widely, mischief in her eyes.

“If you can’t fuckin’ trust me, then who can you bloody trust?” Guyard said, and then laughed lustily before climbing to his feet.

“More friends, Beskha?” asked Lex, blushing lustily. “I’d love to…”

“...be going?” Asher finished for her. “Really, you’re lovely, but Beskha and I have business.”

Lex rolled her eyes and picked up the shirt and skirt that lay on the couch. “You’re no fun at all.”

_I can be. Just not now, sweet thing._ Asher gave her a glance as she put on her clothes, while Beskha giggled.

Guyard rubbed his shoulder where Asher had grabbed him. “Nice place you’ve got set up. Good enough to…” he froze at the sight of something silver in Lex’s skirt. “What kinda fuckin’ whore are you?”

“You have a problem with a girl defending herself, Guyard?” asked Beskha.

Lex finished putting on her clothes. “I’ll have you know, you dumbarse, I’m not a bloody whore. I’m a courtesan. We’ve been that way since me grandmum ruled Lys.”

“It’s just that…” Guyard hesitated. “I’ve never seen a wh--I mean, ‘courtesan’ who carries steel on her.”

The lightly-dressed courtesan flicked back her long, dark hair. “You do now.”

Beskha grabbed Lex’s hand and shoved what Asher took to be coin into her palm, before whispering something into the courtesan’s ear and giving her a peck on the mouth.

“You call this bloody payment?” she looked in disbelief at the coins in her hand. “I’m worth more than some common trollop you’d find pulling up her skirt on the docks!”

With that, she opened the door and walked out. Asher noticed that she wasn’t wearing shoes or anything of the sort. “Ground could be a bit cold.”

“Fuck off!” she said without turning back. “Gettin’ boring in here anyway…” and she disappeared into the city, Beskha locking the door behind her.

An awkward silence hung over the room.

“Quite a whore there,” said Guyard, before adding a chuckle. “Or I’m sorry, ‘courtesan’. Bloody wench.”

Beskha sighed and gave a roll of her eyes. “Has Bloodsong got a price on Marillos or did you just come here to be a bloody nuisance?”

“Now...hey! What’d I ever do to deserve this?” Guyard looked as if he were a child being told off for being found with a bottle of wine. 

Guyard the Goon was little more than gopher for the Wolf Pack, always the one setting up deals but never sticking around to see how they turned. Asher found it difficult to trust such a man, but Bloodsong swore by him. 

“You got ‘im or what?” he asked, sweat dripping down his neck.

“What are you so nervous about?” asked Asher. “We’re good for that, aren’t we?”

Guyard wiped away the sweat. “It’s just...we get seen with ‘im by the wrong people and it’s our heads, and I’d like to keep mine, thanks.”

Beskha stared at the floor. “Or sold to fuckin’ slavers…” She had never told Asher the full truth of her childhood in Tyrosh, only that it was a most unhappy one.

“Yeah, right! Or that! You think these hands do honest labor?” asked Guyard as he held out his hands, not a callous on them.

“Not a day in your life,” said Asher. “He’s in here.”

They walked into the smaller room, almost a closet, where Marillos still lay against the wall.

Guyard rushed over and leaned next to the magister. “Oh, nice! Yeah, very nice!”

“What’s the trade worth?” asked Asher. “I’m sick of hearing him bitch.”

The Goon continued looking over Marillos. “It’s good. Real good.”

“That doesn’t answer the bloody question, Guyard,” Beskha snapped. 

He said nothing as he continued eying Marillos. With an annoyed sigh, Beskha picked up the lanky man by his hair and pulled him up, Guyard screaming the entire way.

“Listen to me,” she said. Guyard protested, but Beskha replied by pulling his hair still more until he relented. “What did Bloodsong say? What is the fuckin’ coin for him and who’s payin’?” Asher simply looked on, a look of bemusement on his face.

“Braavos!” Guyard shouted. “Braavos is bloody payin’ for ‘im!”

Beskha released her grip on him, and shared a confused glance with Asher.

“Yeah, they want ‘im real bad. You thought it was just the Three Daughters who want his head?” he gave a laugh at that. “Some lordlings from Braavos want to question him or somethin’.”

Asher grew curious. “Why? Braavosi don’t run interference unless it fattens their purse.”

“Or if it’s in their best interests,” added Beskha.

The Goon, small and liable to fall over if one brushed him with a feather, rubbed the back of his head. Beskha had pulled so hard that a chunk of brownish black hair was missing and lay on the floor. “Don’ know what for. Just what I heard when I set it up, is all.”

Marillos, who apparently felt the brief quiet bliss he had graced Asher and Beskha with was a suitable enough gift, started screaming once more. His mouth may have been gagged, but Asher suddenly wished to know the words he spoke. He moved to remove the gag, but Guyard gave the magister a hard backhand across his face with such force that the fat man was sent to the tiles, moaning in pain.

“That’s enough out of you, ya thievin’ shit!” Guyard barked, and then held his hand tightly. _Shouldn’t lead with the bone, dumbarse._

Asher pulled Guyard back, astonished at the Goon’s newfound physicality. “Calm down, just bloody calm down. I might want to hear him out.”

“Thought you didn’t care about political horseshit?” Beskha said teasingly.

“I don’t.” _Only when it bloody complicates everything._

He looked down at Marillos, the magister’s eyes full of fear. “If I take this off, will you be good and tell me why Braavos wants you?”

Marillos nodded hurriedly; whatever it was had been enough for his muffled curses to turn to pleading.

“Really, Asher? Now you want to have a nice friendly chat with him?” Beskha asked in weary protest. “It’s coin, bloody good coin, and that’s all it is. Why make it more than that?”

The magister’s eyes went wide in the direction of the den. Asher and Beskha followed them, only to find that Guyard was nowhere in sight.

“Where’d that little shit get off to now?” Beskha paced towards the open door, but stopped in her tracks when she got there, her expression turned from annoyance to shock. “Um...Asher?”

Asher put his hand on his axe and strode towards the door, only to be greeted by several men wearing red and white armor and carrying longswords pouring into the den. Beskha backed away, her hands raised, as one of the men held his sword to her throat. As Asher went for his axe, another man raised his sword, daring him to go further. The sigil on their armor was that of a dragon, much like the Targaryens of old, and at once Asher knew the armed men as the Dragonseeds.

_Yet another bloody brilliant fucking job._

“How sweet of you both. I get to finish a contract and have a right jolly time,” said one of the Dragonseeds, taller than the rest. “And it’s not even my bloody nameday!”

He looked at Asher, purple eyes lighting up a duo of scars on his pale face, and silver hair flowing behind him. 

“Vaelyx,” Asher seethed. “Thought you’d be just another body at the bottom of the sea now.”

Vaelyx half-smiled, half-grimaced, and pulled down his breastplate to point to more gashes on his throat. “After what your Tyroshi bitch here did to me, you would think that. But, well, mayhaps you’ve heard of the blood of the dragon?”

Beskha laughed, even as steel closed around her neck. “I don’t think it protects against a sword to your fuckin’ throat.”

He started towards Asher, but stopped abruptly and swung the back of his hand into Beskha’s face, causing the big woman to nearly fall over. Asher rushed at him, but the Dragonseed holding him at swordpoint caught him with his foot, sending Asher to the ground.

“And who’s this?” Vaelyx asked, a malicious swagger in his voice. “Guest of your’s, I take it?”

He kicked Asher in the stomach, causing him to clutch it as the pain shot through him, and then stepped over him into the closet. “Marillos…” Asher saw him lean down by the magister, who screamed at the sight of Vaelyx’s scarred face. “Oh Asher, what do you think the conclave would do to you both if they knew you had kidnapped one of their own and had him trussed up like a common slave?”

Asher leaned up from where he lay, a Dragonseed still holding his sword on him. “They’d better bloody pay us for what he’s worth!”

“Asher, please,” Beskha said as she wiped blood from her mouth. “Shut the fuck up for a while.”

“At last we can agree on something, Beskha,” said Vaelyx as he continued looking over the magister. “But it’s all true, of course. Many in the Free Cities desire poor Marillos’ head, but they know nought the full story of his treachery.”

“And you lot fuckin’ do?” Asher laughed at Vaelyx. “The Dragonseeds are bloody peacemakers now? Is that it?”

Vaelyx shared in Asher’s laughter for a moment before bringing his armored hand into the Northman’s face; the copper taste of blood was at Asher’s tongue in an instant.

“Asher…” Beskha barely whispered it; Asher turned to see that she was leaning on the table in the middle of the den.

The tall Valyrian turned his back to Asher and glared at Marillos, muffled screams echoing helplessly. “You’re a Northman. I know the kind well. You think yourselves so high and honorable, but all it does is make you blind to your kin being so willing to cast you off for a few pieces of silver.”

Asher realized that Guyard had been quick to run off; he hoped the coin was worth it, as the Wolf Pack would hunt him for every last bit of it.

“None of this even matters,” said Vaelyx, his arms crossed. “There’s going to be a much bigger war coming than another petty quarrel between the Daughters, one that will see the rightful dragons returned home. And my family will be on the winning side for once.” And with that, he unsheathed his sword and grabbed Marillos by a lock of hair, before carving the magister’s throat until blood rushed forth, spilling all over the tiles.

Asher and Beskha looked aghast as Marillos’ body fell to the floor, blood spurting out from his opened neck.

Vaelyx turned back to Asher, his silver hair speckled with blood. “Not to worry. The conclave will hear how you tortured Marillos before savagely murdering him.”

He advanced on Asher, who turned back to Beskha; she was steadying herself on the table even as a pair of Dragonseeds held her at bay. As Asher looked into Vaelyx’s snarling face, the sound of the table crashing was heard in the den, and Asher leaped on the Valyrian before he could run him through.

“Who dies first?!” Beskha screamed. “Which of you bastards wishes to dance on my blade?”

Asher spun Vaelyx around, just in time for the Dragonseed behind him to run his sword through his commander’s armor; Vaelyx let out a scream as the blade found a gap and blood poured forth. While the Dragonseed let a look of stunned disbelief cross his face, Asher threw his axe in the air, and with a single motion, brought it down on the man’s head. Vaelyx broke free and shoved Asher off him, but the Northman buried his foot into Vaelyx’s breastplate as hard as he could, sending the Dragonseed commander stumbling into the den. Beskha was fighting with one of the Dragonseeds as she parried his blows from atop the couch; another lay bleeding to death on the table, his throat exposed. Vaelyx unloosed a dagger and swung at Asher, missing by mere inches. One of the Dragonseeds broke off from fighting Beskha and jumped to help his commander, circling around Asher from behind.

“ _Asher!”_ Beskha screamed, still fighting off a Dragonseed.

Asher plunged his axe into Vaelyx’s breastplate, staggering him, before unsheathing his sword and turning around to catch the other man’s throat in a cross grip with both blades. As he spun the man around, Asher pulled on the hilts with all his might, rivulets of blood pouring from the Dragonseed’s throat. Vaelyx charged screaming at Asher, his dagger brought down in a blaze. Asher dropped his sword and caught Vaelyx’s wrists with his axe; his gauntlets held, however, even as blood dripped from within, and the axe stuck. Vaelyx’s dagger was elegant and slightly curved, and it inched ever closer to Asher’s face as the Valyrian smiled a wide, cat-like smirk.

Vaelyx’s scream caught Asher unaware; as he lost his footing and stumbled back, he tried one last swing at Asher, only for his hand to meet Asher’s axe, and a lump of flesh to fall from Vaelyx’s arm. He looked at the bloody stump in horror and screamed bloody murder before sinking to his knees. Behind him stood a most familiar sight - Lex, the barefoot courtesan, brandished a steel dagger in her hands, fresh with blood. On the couch, Beskha finally disarmed her opponent before slashing open his throat with a swing of her sword, and he dropped like a stone. 

“You?” Asher asked in disbelief. 

Lex smiled smugly at him, before wiping off her dagger in Vaelyx’s hair; the silver was now nought but red.

Beskha jumped off the couch and joined Asher as he looked down at Vaelyx; he clutched the arm where a gauntleted hand had been just a moment before, blood seeping from the stump. The severed hand still tightly clutched the dagger.

“A little thank you would be nice,” said Lex. Her feet were coated in blood, footprints leading in from the outside. 

“Thank you, Lex. Really,” Beskha answered for him. “Asher’s wits leave him when he’s not got a jape at the ready.”

_What the bloody fuck just happened?_

A voice, gargling thick with blood, came from the floor. “You’ve...just...made enemies…”

Before he could finish, Asher leaned down, grabbed Vaelyx’s hair, and ran his sword through his throat until it came out the back of Vaelyx’s head, blood pouring from two separate holes. Beskha stomped on the Dragonseed’s throat with all her weight, and a sickening snap was heard underneath her boot. 

Asher looked back up at Lex. “Who in seven bleedin’ hells are you?” he asked coldly.

“A friend of a friend,” she replied. “Why know more than that? I saved your bloody life, didn’t I?”

_That you bloody well did._

“We need to leave now, before any more show up,” said Beskha.

The trio left the ruined and bloodied den behind; another Dragonseed lay outside, his throat cut from ear to ear and a crowd beginning to form around the body. They pushed through the onlookers, and rushed to the docks. They had been so noisy, however, that nearly everyone in Myr must’ve heard the melee. Still more Dragonseeds in armor stood in a ring by the dockside, their eyes scanning all around them.

“Shit! Fuck! What now?” asked Asher as they looked from behind a wall.

Lex looked out at the waterfront; the Dragonseeds now had their hands on their swords and were splitting apart. “Got a pillow house a little ways from here. We can wait there ‘til nightfall.”

“We need to be out of Myr, and soon,” said Beskha.

Asher pounded the wall in anger. “All this for fuckin’ nothing! Old Gods take that weasel shit!”

“Keep it down!” Lex whispered. “‘Less you want to have a fight out in the open?”

He looked out at the sellswords as they merged into the thickening crowd. “Only a few of ‘em. We could take ‘em by surprise, the three of us.”

Beskha grabbed Asher and shoved him against the wall. “Listen to me, Asher.” He moved to speak. “Fuckin’ listen and don’t say a fuckin’ word more! Don’t be stupid. We fight here and we bring all of the Free Cites down on our fuckin’ heads!”

“But the Wolf Pack…”

“Forget the bloody Wolf Pack right now! We’ll go to them when we’ve got clear heads on our shoulders, while they’re still attached.”

Asher gazed back out at the crowd. Here he was, on the run from yet more enemies. It was the Whitehills all over again. His father thought he had the best of reasons for sending Asher away, but Asher wished to march on Highpoint and hang gluttonous Ludd Whitehill and his lump of shit sons from the battlements. And then nothing would keep him from being with Gwyn.

“You two can fight like bloody lords later!” said Lex, her voice rising. “If you want to keep your heads, you’ll follow me. Unless you want to lose ‘em in the streets.”

She turned her heel and Beskha followed. After a second of thought, Asher joined them. Lex wiped her bloody feet off on a patch of grass, before beckoning them forward through the throngs of residents.

“It’s good you came, Lex,” said Beskha. “I’ll have to make this up to you.”

“Yeah, you bloody will. The both of you,” said Lex.

They blended into the crowd, the city swallowing them whole. Asher had been all across the Free Cities over the past three years, and though they all let him look, he was never allowed to stay and touch. There would never be a home for him across the Narrow Sea. Would there ever truly be a home for him anywhere?

  


\---

  


“Are you willing to lend me some of your kin, my lord? I’ll need good men if I wish to hold the North.”

“Heh, if it’ll get them out of my bloody hair, then take as many as you wish. Got enough of ‘em here, all fighting each other like a bunch of damned wolves. They think if they wish hard enough, that I’ll lay down and die so they can be lord.”

“I have a son, a most...unusual boy. Very exotic tastes. He loves women and hunting and, well, you need but look in his eyes to know that he’s my son.”

“Well aren’t you just so lucky? I’ve got so many damn children running around here that I’ve near lost track of ‘em. Bunch of bloody ingrates, don’t know just how good they all got it. Not half of ‘em would’ve had the stones to have this wedding, heh.”

“Lord Tywin is a most...persuasive gentleman indeed. I’d have to have been a complete fool to stay true to Robb Stark. Very gentle young man, able to win but clearly not capable of ruling.” 

“Gods be good, the Tullys can now all swim the fishes they so love. Heh, all that mocking that came from Hoster’s mouth. ‘The Late Lord Frey’. I only wish he still lived so that he could see what’s become of his family; his daughter is dead, his grandson is dead, his son is a guest in my cellars, and my son is now Lord of Riverrun. I couldn’t have asked the Gods for a better gift. Heh, the Young Wolf…”

“Forever young now. Though the Blackfish…”

“Fuck the Blackfish! Bugger him to seven hells! Tywin promised me his support in taking Riverrun, and I’ll soon see his head removed from his body in due time as well.”

“As you say. Would you mind if I sent for Aenys and Hosteen? And mayhaps some more of their kin. The boy, Robert, I think my son would take a liking to him. As would Lord Whitehill’s son.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Whomever you wish.”

“And...Drevyn, I believe? Your nephew?”

“Who?”

“Ser Myles’ son. He made sure the Northmen in the camps didn’t make it far, though I fear he needs a guiding hand to help set him straight.”

“Heh, Myles. My sister’s grandson. Sylvina wasn't the most sought after maiden, and her brood fared little better. All daughters she had; couldn't even find a match for one of them so they married her off to a cousin. That part of my family have done nought but leech off me for years. Put them to whatever use you may find.”

“Thank you, my lord. As soon as I’m able, I’ll return North. I have much to do, and I fear that my countrymen still hold true to the Starks.”

"Just remind ‘em where their families are. I think that the Greatjon’s making himself right at home here, heh. I do so hope you enjoy Walda, Roose. She’s quite something.”

“Yes. Considerably.”

  


\--Conversation between Lord Roose Bolton and Lord Walder Frey at the Twins, sometime after the Red Wedding, late 299 AC

  
  


\---

  


“Sandor called me ‘little bird’ all that time ago in King’s Landing. He said I needed to see the world for what it really is, that songs and legends are just that. I once saw Joffrey as my Florian, and yet when I saw that bastard choke on poison, I only wished to see it again and again. He smiled when my father’s head was lopped off, and no doubt he was full of joy after my mother and brother were slaughtered like sheep. My family, all lost to treachery. Is this how the Starks are to be remembered? As traitors who died traitors’ deaths? The Lannisters would see it as such, them and those fucking turncloak Boltons and Freys. But let the songs sing a different melody when this is all done.

My life may be in tatters, my house reduced to nothing, my honor stripped from me. I may have nothing left, but those who raised their blades and spoke sweet lies still posess their eyes. I shall relieve them of such, and I’ll be the one who laughs in sweet mirth. So let it be sung.”

  


\--Diary of Sansa Stark at the Eyrie, 300 AC

  
  


\---

  


“When the final song is sung, it’ll be the wolves who survived all. And woe be to any who meet us in battle, for they too shall know true men and women of the North.”

\--Reyanna Ryder, Commander of the Company of the Rose, c. 300 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This roughly corresponds to the first scene of the second episode, but with many, many changes.


	7. A Forest Collapsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mere days after the Red Wedding, Mira Forrester is asked by her mother to rally the support of House Manderly. However, certain parties have other ideas for all involved.

It was a cloudy, bitter light that shone in from over the Bite and in through the arched window of Mira Forrester’s bedchamber in the New Castle. The sun must have decided to hide its eternal shame behind a misty veil, as the view of White Harbor was nought but gray. _Two days. How has it only been two days?_ It could have been two centuries and the tears would never stop rolling from Mira’s eyes. She was far from the only one; Lady Leona, already withdrawn following the capture of her husband, Ser Wylis, at the Ruby Ford, now stayed in her bedchamber nine out of every ten hours. Her daughters Wynafryd and Wylla, normally so joyful and quick to laugh, barely touched their food. And Lord Wyman Manderly, the proud Merman of White Harbor, now ate twice as much. He ate not with joy, but with grief weighing heavily on his heart like an elephant.

They had all lost something at the Twins - a son, an uncle, a father and brother, and untold friends. For the past two days since that horrible night, the mood in the New Castle was dark and laden with words left unspoken. The great cobblestone streets of White Harbor below, a proud city that could’ve rivaled King’s Landing in the activity of trade, was as still as a piece of old furniture, as quiet as a field after battle. Mira had woken up to a letter that morn, one from her mother in Ironrath. 

_“If we are ever to avenge this craven act of betrayal, we need allies. Please, whatever words you can use to bring Lord Manderly to your side, sweet thing.”_

Mira’s mood swung in the opposite direction; she wished to paint the country red with the blood of the catspaw traitors and their blonde, smirking benefactors. It would never ease the pain, but nothing could have possibly brought Mira more joy than to revel in such thoughts. Mira had been in service to the Manderlys for going on three years, and she knew them all well; they’d indeed desire vengeance. But her mother was most mistaken if she thought that support would come so readily, with White Harbor surrounded by enemies. 

A knock came at her door, and Mira answered. 

“Mira, I…” Sera Snow stood in the doorway, her eyes not quite meeting Mira’s. “Is this a bad time? I can…”

“No, it’s fine. Come in, Sera,” said Mira as she turned back towards the window. “And shut the door if it pleases you.”

The door softly closed behind Sera, and the handmaiden stood beside her taller friend.

“I won’t lie and say I’ve not been worried about you,” said Sera. “You barely touched your plate earlier.”

Continuing to gaze out towards White Harbor, Mira said, “Just not quite hungry. You understand.”

“I...yes, I do.” There was a moment of awkward silence as the two handmaidens looked out into the gray midday world beneath the castle. “Mira, please. Talk to me. Say anything.”

Mira quickly turned to Sera, and she felt her fists clench. “Would you like me to sing? Dance? Do words honestly have to be said?”

She immediately regretted it; Sera turned away, her eyes facing the floor. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean…”

“No, Sera. It’s alright.” Mira put her hand on Sera’s shoulder. “I just feel like I’ll end up saying something I can’t take back.”

Sera turned back to Mira. “You think this is easy for me? Wendel was my cousin, and Wylis...Gods only know what they’re doing with him. I can’t bear to walk around seeing all of your faces like they are. And I don’t want you resentin’ me over it.”

Mira ran her hand through a strand of Sera’s brown, braided hair and then took her hands in her’s. “You’re my family, Sera. Do not ever think I’m jealous of you for not wishing to sulk around. You just hide it better than I do.”

That brought a smile to Sera’s face, and she flicked back her hair. “Come on, Mira. We should really see to Lady Leona. I’m worried about her more than anyone.”

She turned her heel, but Mira pulled her back and brought her lips to Sera’s, and the two shared a longing kiss. _I don’t want this to end._ But Sera had the right of it, and the two departed the bedchamber and down a wooded staircase into a great high-ceilinged hall that led to the dining room. Her father would’ve collapsed had she told him that the New Castle was even more beautiful than Ironrath, but that was the truth of it. All of the furnishings and decorations were splendid beyond what she could have dreamed; it was like a shining tribute to all of the great Manderly victories since the coming of ages. Banners, swords, and shields lined the painted castle walls, and the ceiling overhead was adorned with glittering chandeliers that hung beneath a painted mural of ships and the great beasts that lurked within. And still, this lone hall was but a distraction from the elegant splendor of the Merman’s Court that lay west. 

Two guards in ornate green and blue cloaks with the white merman sigil imprinted stood at the entrance to the dining room, where they conversed with Ser Marlon, captain of the Manderly guards and cousin to Lord Wyman. The trio wielded tridents in place of swords, a most curious choice to Mira’s eyes. _Mayhaps this merman appeal goes too far sometimes._

“Sera. I see you’ve brought Lady Mira,” Ser Marlon said curtly as the two handmaidens approached. “Nice of you to finally join us, but I fear mealtime is almost at a close.”

“It’s fine, ser. I’m not particularly in the mood to eat,” replied Mira.

Ser Marlon looked down at her; Mira may have inherited the best of both the Forrester and Branfield heights, but Marlon easily towered over her still. Behind his bushy, gray beard was a face made of pure marble, and eyes to go along with it. “A girl needs to eat, lest she wither away, and you’re already as thin as a post.”

Sera gasped. “Father! Mira is simply…”

“...at a loss? Yes, I’m well aware. We all are,” he said, his tone most uncurious. “Lady Leona, and young Wynafryd and Wylla, I believe could use your company in any event. Run along now.”

Sighing, Sera said, “Yes, father. Of course.”

“Good day to you, Ser Marlon,” Mira said as she followed Sera into the dining hall.

Like the hall before it, the dining chamber was decorated lavishly, murals adorning wood walls and a domed ceiling. The great Mander ran along them, a reminder of their beginnings in the Reach; it was such a common connection that Lady Elissa felt made Mira suited to be in House Manderly’s service. A grand wood table stretched from end to end of the large room, covered in all manner of fish, clams, cod, lobster, and assorted cheeses, and Lady Leona Woolfield sat in a chair near the head of the table, drinking from a goblet of wine. Her daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, sat nearby on opposite ends from one another, picking at the whitefish in front of them. A great padded chair sat empty at the head of the table, where plates covered in fishbone sat under the mounted candles that hung from the ceiling.

“My ladies.” Both handmaidens curtsied as they approached the table before taking seats on opposite sides. 

Leona spared them a glance and spoke their names softly before returning to her wine. A half-empty jug sat in front of her. Mira and Sera both poured goblets of their own; none had spoken a word in protest about that behavior for the last couple of days. The young Manderly girls ate in silence, staring at their plates in quiet contemplation. Mira had so missed Wynafryd’s smile and Wylla’s enthusiasm. Seldom a day had passed without her reveling in the stories of King Robb and the great Northern spirit. But now, there was nought but bitter sadness behind those soft blue eyes.

Sera glanced nervously at Mira, who shrugged in response. _What help can I give? What words are there to say?_

“I’d like to hang all of ‘em,” a high-pitched voice finally broke the silence. “I want to march to the Twins and butcher that weasel and all his kin.” Wylla clutched a fork like it were a sabre, and her eyes were cold and hollow.

“Wylla, please,” said Leona. “You mustn’t speak like that.”

“Why not, mother? They murdered Uncle Wendel and King Robb, and we should repay ‘em in kind!” 

Wynafryd leaned across the table and put her hand over her younger sister’s. “Keep it down, Wyl! Please!” 

The younger girl jerked her hand away. “And what of father? Will they keep him forever just like they’ve done to Lady Sansa?” She turned to Mira. “Mira, tell them! Tell them you agree!”

Mira looked down at her hands as they lay in her lap, before taking a deep drink from her goblet. She felt Sera’s eyes on her, and the other handmaiden went for her own cup.

“They butchered your father and brother! We’ve all been wronged in this house!” said Wylla, even as her mother and sister urged her to say no more.

Mayhaps Mira should’ve paid more mind to diplomacy, but she found that a difficult task recently. “I agree with you, Wylla. I do, with all my heart.”

Sera nearly spat out her wine. Mira’s eyes turned to the entryway, where Ser Marlon had departed his men. 

“I just…” A tear rolled down Wylla’s face. “It isn’t right what they’ve done.”

Her mother poured another goblet and took a drink. “We know, young one. But we shan’t speak of any of that.” Leona Woolfield was a woman who’d seen her once-lithe frame go to waste with excessive eating, which turned to heavy drinking. Her long blonde hair, even with Mira and Sera braiding their best, still remained frizzled and frayed. When Mira first came to White Harbor, Lady Leona was the life of the party. Now, with the war taking its toll on the realm, she had seldom smiled and spoke very little.

Wynafryd looked up from her plate. “Mira, how is...how is your family doing?” Her eyes didn’t quite meet Mira’s, and she nervously ran a hand through her brown, braided hair as she spoke the words.

“About as well as all of us,” said Mira, before finishing off her goblet. “Ethan certainly is having an interesting time of things.” _I don’t even want to see their faces right now._

Wynafryd rested her head on one of her hands while looking off at the great mural behind Mira. “I’m sure Ethan will make a fine lord.” 

“Such a nice young boy,” echoed Leona.

The girl’s eyes then grew steely. “He’ll remember. I know he will.” _We all shall._

Mira considered mentioning her mother’s letter, but thought the better of it. All in good time, she thought. Not as if any of the women at that table could will an army into thin air.

“You’re being quiet, Sera,” said Wylla. 

Sera looked down at the table, and sighed. “I’m but a bastard. What weight do my words carry here?”

“Oh, hush now! You’re our family, Sera!” said Leona. “Don’t ever think like that.”

Sera turned to Mira and smiled. “I believe that whatever Lord Wyman decides will be best,” she said.

Wylla’s face turned hopefully at that. She was a girl who wasn’t like to fit in down south, with her blonde hair dyed with green. _That would certainly turn some heads, to say nothing of her mouth._

As Mira finished off her second goblet of wine, Maester Theomore appeared in the entryway. “Lord Manderly wishes for the presence of his family in the hall,” he said, his thick lips pursed as always.

The women all rose, chairs scraping across the tiles, and servants began to spread around the table, picking up plates and goblets as they went. _Anyone could be a traitor, even in the North, it seems._ If Mira couldn’t trust even a proud bannerman of House Stark to do right by them, what was honor and loyalty to anyone else?

Leona and her daughters followed Theomore into the Merman’s Court, Mira and Sera staying closely behind them, and with them, several blue and green-cloaked members of the household guard.

“I still can’t get over the beauty here,” said Mira as her eyes looked all around the hall.

Sera chuckled. “One thing we do better than you Forresters,” she said with a cat-like grin.

If the chambers and dining hall of the New Castle were grand, they held but a candle to the Merman’s Court. From the ceiling to the floor, the entire hall was an artist’s dream; great blue and green murals of the sea, ships, seaweed, and nautical wildlife - from starfish to eels - encircled the court, framing the high window archways and travelling all across the ceiling, where fishing nets dangled. It was truly a hall that even the proudest Lannister would be in envy of, and even the most modest of Starks would have nought but kind words to say of its beauty. On the far end of the hall, a great dais sat in front of a mural that depicted a kraken and a leviathan doing battle, and on a massive padded throne sat the Lord of White Harbor, a massive belly protruding from his merman-encrusted doublet. His cousin, Ser Marlon, stood beside him, his grey eyes casting a watchful view of Mira.

“My lord, your family…” Theomore started.

“Yes, yes. I see. Thank you,” said Lord Wyman with a wave of his hand. 

Leona and her daughters took their seats on the dais, while Mira and Sera waited on the floor below, their hands crossed at their waists. If this was a special occasion, Mira feared that neither she nor Sera looked the part; Mira wore a simple blue and green dress, the tree and sword of House Forrester imprinted upon its chest, with a skirt that hung just above her ankles. Sera’s dress was a more ornate gown of green, a silver necklace stretching from her neck and tying across her bosom, the merman of House Manderly by her shoulder. Both girls’ dresses were cut off at the arms, and their braided hair rested on their heads. The other women of the house were dressed far more befitting of ladies of a noble house.

“Well, let’s greet our guests, shall we?” Wyman flicked his ringed hand up at no one in particular, his head looking towards his family.

“Bring forth the Frey arrivals!” spoke Marlon to the guards at the entrance.

As the words reached Mira’s ears, she felt her heart nearly stop. _Those bastards dare show their weasel faces here?_ The grand doors to the Merman’s Court opened, dim light streaming in. Several men-at-arms in blue and silver cloaks and wearing the twin castles of House Frey poured into the hall, carrying swords, spears, and shields. Following them were three men, all dressed in the same. Two were tall and strong looking, with flowing dark hair and freckled faces. The third man was shorter, with a pronounced jaw and a mottle of dirty blonde hair, and across from the castles on his cloak were two entwined serpents.

“Please welcome Ser Baelon of House Frey, his nephew Paxtan, and their cousin, Ser Jason of House Paege,” announced Theomore as the Frey men walked through the Merman’s Court.

The two dark-haired Freys stopped before the dais and bowed. The blonde, jawed man glared at Wyman a moment before he too bowed before him.

“So, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” asked Wyman, one fist clenched by his head while the other rested on the arm of his throne. 

One of the dark-haired men stepped forward. “Lord Manderly, I am sure you have no doubt heard of what happened at the Twins some nights back.” 

Mira stared at the Frey as he spoke those words, her eyes never leaving him. _They may have the honor of a banker and the shame of a mummer, but I will not look away. They will know the North remembers, even if they care not._

“I come not bearing ill will towards you or your house. I simply wish to bring word of peace, so that our houses may put down our swords and stop killing one another.”

Lord Wyman looked at the Frey pensively, his fleshy face red. “Peace, is it, Ser Baelon? Who’s peace do you speak of? Your family’s? The Iron Throne’s?”

Baelon Frey looked around him, all at most unfriendly faces. Leona watched him coldy, while Wynafryd looked away and young Wylla’s face grew red. Theomore, he of House Lannister, seemed to be the only one who smiled at the guests in the Merman’s Court.

“What of my sons? Wendel’s body grows cold while Wylis sits in chains.” Leona flinched at those words. “You speak of peace yet think to offer me nothing in return for it.”

The blonde man with the serpent sigil stepped next to Baelon. “Our bloody peace is to not march north with more men.”

As Wyman grabbed both arms of his seat, his massive hands wrapped tightly around them, the third Frey stepped between his two feuding relatives. “My lord, Jason simply tires of the long voyage. We fully intend to return to you what’s rightfully yours.”

“At a price,” said Jason Paege, crossing his arms.

Baelon cleared his throat and said, “In exchange for both the safe return of Ser Wylis and the bones of Ser Wendel, you are to renounce your support of the usurper and rebel, Robb Stark, and swear fealty to King Joffrey.”

Mira never cast aside her glance at the Freys, and Jason took note of her glare.

“In addition,” said Jason. “The Iron Throne requires a dowry of three thousand gold dragons, and your abdication of Hornwood and all its titles.”

Wyman looked over his guests, his blue eyes saying nothing and his brown beard masking any outward emotion. “As you say,” he finally spoke.

Mira shot a glance at the lord before whispering to Sera, “What the bloody hell is he doing?”

Sera shushed her, but both Jason and his cousin Paxtan cast their eyes her way.

“That’s not all, my lord,” said Baelon. “Both the king and Lord Walder wish to make absolutely certain where your sympathies lie.”

A smirk came across Jason’s face. “In time, you shall marry one of my uncle’s daughters. And Ser Wylis’ daughters here shall marry men of House Frey, all the same.”

Wynafryd immediately turned her head towards Jason in horror, while Wylla’s hands clutched the tablecloth in front of her, and Lady Leona put her hand to her mouth, her already red face blushing so bright that it would’ve been simple enough to cook meat over it.

Lord Wyman hesitated for a moment before nodding his head and saying, “Then it shall be done.”

Young Wylla turned back towards her grandfather. “But...what...no!” she tried to scream it, but the words came out just above whispers, and her mother quickly shushed her.

“I believe such an arrangement is most beneficial to both our houses,” said Paxtan. “You’ll come to find that House Frey wants nought but to prosper alongside House Manderly.”

 _“YOU LIAR!”_ Wylla’s voice echoed throughout the Merman’s Court. She jumped up from her seat, only for Leona and Wynafryd to hold her back and sit her down again, cursing the Freys all the way down.

“ _No more!_ ” Wyman’s booming voice quieted all. Mira had heard the lord speak in that tone many a time, be it in merriment or anger. “Wylla, do not speak another word about this!”

She moved to protest, but Wyman nearly rose and yelled, “Take her out of here!” leading Ser Marlon to escort her off the dais and out of the court, Wynafryd following and attempting in vain to quiet her younger sister. Leona looked down at the cloth in front of her, her head held in one hand, while Maester Theomore sported a grin on his plump face.

Mira felt her blood boil; she wanted to damn the Freys to their faces just as much. _How can he take their side so readily?!_ She felt Sera’s hands on her tightening shoulders, and her whispers to stop drawing attention to herself.

Both Baelon and Paxtan Frey averted their eyes from the dais, but Jason Paege still had a catty smile. “One more order of business, my lord,” and he turned to Mira. “I’ve seen that tree before. Who are you, girl?”

She glared at Jason, Sera’s hands still firmly but gently holding her back.

“I notice you haven’t kept your eyes to yourself since we arrived. So I’ll ask again,” he said, slowly approaching Mira. “Who are you?”

Mira stared silently at Jason, his cat-like grin one of bemusement. 

“Well, girl, go and tell him!” boomed Lord Wyman’s voice.

She turned to him, looking for any sign of defiance, but he showed none. “Mira of House Forrester, ser. If it pleases.”

“It does indeed…” said Jason, slowly nodding. “Yes, my family has dealt in ironwood before. And I do say we should continue that relationship.”

“Jason, I don’t believe we’ve been granted authority to…” Baelon started.

“Nonsense,” Jason cut him off. “We’re sent here as the crown’s representatives to secure alliances. Do you dare to suggest that we not do as we’re asked, cousin?”

Baelon ran a gloved hand through his flowing hair. “It’s not that…”

“What do you speak of, ser?” asked Wyman. “If Lady Mira could be of any assistance to House Frey…”

“I believe she may. I’ll have to speak it over with my family, but…” He stopped and gave Mira another look. “Yes, I think that they will indeed like this.”

Wyman stood up from his cushioned throne, slow and heavy, and gestured to the Freys. “If that is all, then please, sers, you are most honored guests of White Harbor. Come, lay down your burdens and be at peace here. My hall is welcome to you.”

Mira began to speak, but Lord Manderly’s cold glare stopped her swiftly. 

“That’s most kind of you, my lord,” said Paxtan, smiling warmly. “I think we can manage a few hours, but we must be back in Gulltown by nightfall.”

Jason nodded and smiled. “Yes, if we aren’t, then...well, that would be most unfortunate for all involved.”

Mira and Jason exchanged a final glance, his smiling face revealing nought about his intentions. She then turned to Lord Wyman, who shook hands with Baelon and laughed a loud, booming gail of mirth. And then she turned back to Sera, who seemed to know exactly what Mira’s thoughts were. _So quick to bend the knee. Where is your honor, my lord?_ Mira wished for Wylis’ safe return as much as anyone, but the alacrity of which Wyman had bent to the demands of turncloaks and murderers ate away at her, and now her family was left without an ally in the fight to come. She wished to see no more of such a travesty.

Sera found her in the garden outside the castle, after that farce of a court. Mira had taken to Leona’s peach brandy as she looked out over the edge of the castle, her feet bare to mayhaps bring back memories of playing in the Wolfswood with her siblings, true and baseborn alike, and of dancing in the meadow at Rillwater Crossing with Elaena and Camylle Glenmore. Under the gray sky, the harbors looked most unattractive to Mira’s eyes, though the Tyroshi vintage most likely did not help her sight in that case. 

She felt a hand on her shoulder and spun to face Sera. 

“Maybe go easy on that, yeah? How many have you had?” 

Mira downed the rest of her goblet and then examined its ornate blue and green ruby finish. _Is anything in this bloody castle not blue or fucking green?_ “Third cup, I think. Not counting lunch.”

“Seven bloody hells!” Sera exclaimed as she threw her hands up.

“Seven hells...why do you lot follow them at all? This is the North!” and she bellowed over the edge of the garden and into White Harbor below her.

A soft chuckle came from Sera as she looked in bewilderment at her friend making a bloody fool of herself. “You know bloody well why,” said Sera as she poured a goblet of brandy for herself. “And doesn’t your mother follow the Seven?”

Mira pushed back from the stone divider with her foot, causing her to nearly fall over. “What can I say, Sera? I always did like heart trees better.”

“Gods be good…” She took a drink of brandy, and her face grew serious. “I don’t care for this any more than you. But do you really wish to see Wylis’ head roll? Do you think any of us do?”

Mira turned back to the sight of White Harbor, cloaked in mist. “Gods, damn that bastard king to his seven bloody hells.”

“Want to keep it down, Mira? Be careful who you say that around.”

“What am I going to tell Mother? That Lord Lamprey has turned his cloak?” asked Mira, and then she felt tears roll from her eyes. “Gods...father, Rodrik…”

Sera wrapped her arms around Mira. “Hey, hey!” and she pulled Mira up as the taller Northerner nearly tripped. “I’m here for you. You know that?”

Normally, Mira would’ve waited until they were safely out of view of any curious servants, but the brandy took over and she threw caution to the wind. Grabbing Sera tightly around the waist, she began pecking the smaller handmaiden across the mouth and neck and started tearing at the back of Sera’s dress.

“Are you fucking mad?” asked Sera, almost giggling. “Anyone could…”

“Bugger that. Why should we care any longer?” and she leaned Sera into a nearby plant.

Sera moaned in pleasure as Mira ran her hand down her leg, before she pulled Mira to the grass and turned her on her back. However, as she was undoing the stitches on Mira’s blouse, the sound of footsteps and clanking steel echoed in the hall.

“Shit! Mira, get your arse up!” 

_All I want is a bit of bliss away from all this shit._ Mira groaned, but got up along with Sera, the two handmaidens quickly straightening out their dresses and fixing their hair before pouring two more goblets of peach brandy. Two cloaked Frey men marched into the garden, and Paxtan Frey stepped out between them.

“My ladies,” he said as he looked them over, before a bewildered look came across him. “Enjoying the day, high in spirits, I take it.”

The two handmaidens exchanged quick glances before downing their goblets.

“It’s a touch cold out here, my lady, and you look especially poorly dressed for winter.”

Mira smirked at him. “Ser...Paxley, is it?”

“Paxtan,” he said with a smile. “And I’m no knight. Merely a representative my family saw fit to throw to the wolves.” He turned to Sera. “I don’t mean to interrupt, my lady, but would you care if I spoke alone to Lady Forrester?”

Sera rolled her eyes and shoved her half-full goblet in Paxtan’s gloved hands, nearly causing the brandy to slosh onto his cloak. “Whatever you say,” and she turned to Mira as she strode off, mouthing the word “polite” at her. _Hardly a fair challenge with this lot._

Paxtan looked down at the goblet of brandy. “I must say, I do have something of a thirst.” He brought the cup up to his nose and inhaled. “Peaches...very nice,” and took a drink.

“What did you want, Paxter?” Mira asked as she turned back to the view of White Harbor. 

He turned to his guards and said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

They hesitantly looked at one another. “My lord, we were told to…”

“Right. And now you’ll do what I’m telling you, or by the time we step foot out of White Harbor, you’ll have those towers torn off and spend the rest of your days as sellswords. Do you understand?” Paxtan’s face grew red as he stared into the guard’s eyes. 

However, though both guards looked none too pleased at his words, they did as told and departed the gardens. Now it was just the Northerner and the Frey, all alone for the world to see.

“Truly sorry about that,” he said as he stepped beside Mira and shared her view of the North beneath them. “My uncle, when he bothers to think of me at all, seems to believe I need nursemaids shadowing my every step.”

“Baelon seemed the absent type from what I saw,” Mira said before taking a drink from her goblet.

“No, not that uncle, my lady.”

 _A Frey doesn’t care for old Walder? Will small wonders never end?_ She had heard the rumors of Oxcross, of how Black Walder murdered his grandfather, Ser Stevron, to hasten his chances of inheriting the Twins. There wasn’t a shred of honor between the lot of that family. Mira wished she could’ve said the same about the North, but even before the Red Wedding, gossip ran rampant of Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, killing his brother Domeric, and of Torrhen Whitehill, little more than a thirdborn son, throwing his greyscale-ridden brother Karl from the Highpoint battlements. Their lord fathers would never have stood for those rumors, no matter how much they believed in them privately. She recalled the feast at Winterfell some years back, where Lady Grayson’s good-brother drunkenly japed about how quickly Torrhen found himself in such an advantageous position. Ludd Whitehill had laughed along with all else, but by night’s end, the man who spoke those words was found beaten half to death, part of his tongue cut off and an eye missing. None would dare speak of such matters in Ludd’s presence ever again.

“You’re doubtless aware that House Frey is a very large, nomadic family. From Walder’s brood alone you could toss a stone and go from the Carons to the Braxes and still not have even touched upon our tangled tree. And that’s not even broaching the topic of his sisters’ children.” He downed his goblet and straightened out his shoulder-length hair as it blew in the breeze. “You think that a third son already feels inadequate? That’s but a laugh to us grandchildren of Sylvina Frey. We envy all our cousins there. Someone on my side of the family has about as much chance as becoming Lord of the Crossing as Lord Wyman does putting down his fork.”

Though she really shouldn’t have, Mira burst into laughter, and Paxtan joined her. While in the past she’d had nothing but respect and admiration for Wyman and his booming, boisterous opinions, she’d found the past day to be a mummer’s farce put on by Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-a-Horse. 

“My father was the third son,” she said as a tear came to her eye. “My uncles both fell to the Targaryens. But he was a great man, a man of honor.”

“I’ve no doubt that he was. In all truth, they didn’t even tell me what was going to happen until after,” he said wearily. “Lothar came by a moon before, told the three of us to go to Gulltown and wait for a raven. We were just...drinking and laughing with the Valemen there when word of the wedding reached us.” He cast his green eyes aside. “And then their japes became cold glares and veiled threats. I’d never seen such a turnaround in emotions before. They wished for nothing more than to take us outside and string us up from the Eyrie.”

She slammed down her goblet on the balcony. “You really had no idea? You take me for a bloody fool, do you? Were you told to say this horseshit so I’d agree to whatever it is your cousin wishes of me?”

Paxtan’s eyes met hers; his were lonely and awash with regret. “My lady, I know this must sound like a mummer’s performance, but I swear on my honor that not a word of it is false.”

“Your fucking honor?” She laughed at that. “The honor of a man who’s either so shameless as to lie because he’s a bloody craven, or too witless to know what oaths his fucking family laughed about breaking. How can you look at me and call that shit honor, Frey?”

The Frey said nothing; he merely refilled his goblet with more brandy and took a long drink. _How I’ve dreamed of driving a dagger into a Frey’s black heart, and yet this one seems too easy._

He chuckled, his cold breath visible as it left his mouth. “They didn’t bloody well trust us. Walder and Lord Bolton and Lothar were all playing Cyvasse back there while the rest of us scrambled about. Before we set out, Perwyn and Olyvar said they had been told not to come to the wedding. Alesander said the same, as did my cousin Armada’s family and all of Jeyne Rivers’ daughters. I should’ve pieced it all together then, but my father always insisted I be, what did he call it?” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, ‘the ideal Frey’, that mayhaps one day my uncle would look favorably on us for our loyalty.” He laughed and inhaled more brandy. “I’m sure those knighthoods will be great severance for a lifetime spent having to look over our shoulders everywhere we turn.”

 _Sleep with one eye open, and always carry a dagger._ “Your cousin sure seemed quite happy to kill us all in our sleep if he got the chance.” The way Jason had looked at Mira made her skin crawl, and she wished to give him a more permanent smile seeing as his lips never seemed to rest.

“Jason made mention of his sons attending the wedding, so most like he went with us to ensure Lord Manderly’s subservience. I can think of no other explanation.” He took another drink before turning back to Mira. “It’s no secret that my family could not get along if you were to threaten the lives of their children. My cousin Stevron was a great, honorable man, and yet the only offspring of his who are not either little girls or touched are among the most vile you could possibly find at the Twins. And both of my little brothers are as far apart as you could fathom. Bryden would rather frolic in the Free Cities than be witness to my family’s backstabbing ways, while Drevyn hopes to be made lord of something. As if my uncle even remembers his face.”

Mira thought of Rodrik and Asher, both warriors and yet so different one might think they came from different houses entirely. “Kind of you to mention brothers, seeing as mine was butchered by your kin at the Twins.” 

“I didn’t mean to offend, Mira. And you have my deepest sympathies, as little as you may think a Frey can offer them. It’s just that my brother is a most ambitious sort, always clawing and clamoring to be noticed. I’ve no doubt where his sympathies lie, nor do I treasure returning home to hear his tales of bloodlust. He’d wish to be king were he not so invisible. My parents did not wish that on him, but the apple in my family does not often linger by tree for long.”

“What does your family want, exactly?” she asked coldly. “I saw the way your cousin looked at me, like a cat who’d found his next meal. Lord Manderly may be quick to bow to you, but do not think my family’s knees are made of milk.”

Leaning against the balcony, he stared off into the gray sky. The breeze augered for more rain that day. “Jason is not unlike my brother; he wishes for titles and glory all the same, and it seems he feels that he’s got a dagger in his stocking. I don’t even wish to know what he thinks.” He sat down his goblet and gestured to the view of White Harbor. “A most beautiful country you have up here. A touch cold, but…”

“It’s exactly the temperature we wish,” she said. _And southerners often find themselves most unwelcome._

He smiled. “As you say, my lady. Now I’m afraid I must leave you. My uncle and cousin are doubtless wondering where I’m at, and I’d rather not have Jason go running to old Walder about me planning treason. I’d very much like to keep my head.” He took a long look at Mira, keenly studying the Northwoman’s face. “I have a little sister. Grayce. She was very devoted to the King in the North, as was my mother. The thought of seeing their faces, it…” He looked away. “Well, mayhaps we’ve more in common than you’d care to think, Mira.” 

_What do you know of my sorrows, Frey? You come here wielding a sword and call it a kindness._

Paxtan made towards the castle, but stopped midway. “I am sorry, Mira. You may think those words are nought but wind, but some Freys still hold to honor.” And with that, he took his leave.

Mira knew nought what to make of his words; she had thus far been accustomed to seeing allies stab each other in the backs and take advantage of northern honor. That day would not be a day for gathering men for the cause of revenge. Nay, that day would be one for drinking and contemplating why Wyman Manderly suddenly turned craven. She poured yet another goblet of brandy and drank from it, looking off into the distance as her sight began to blur.

\---

“So, Lord Lamprey has seen fit to choose reason over honor. Good on him. His plump cherub will be back in White Harbor before long, no doubt regrowing that third chin he lost while in Ser Gregor’s care.”

“I imagine he rejoiced at the weight he lost; I’ve heard tales of what guests of Harrenhal were fed.”

“No doubt. I wouldn’t have cared a wit had Manderly refused, though. It would be but a simple matter to burn that fucking sty he calls a castle to the bottom of the Bite.”

“Better a dead enemy than a vengeful ally, I always say. I wouldn’t trust a word from his mouth, when he bothers to speak rather than eat a seventh serving of mutton, that is.”

“Believe me, Lord Rickard, I shan’t. My father thought it wise for defeated enemies to bend the knee, but it’s all wrought betrayal and treason wherever you look. But you’ve been one of the few who is not a craven anklebiter who’d desert your king when the moment became opportune, so I have a special request for you.”

“For you, my queen, anything at all.”

“So loyal, Rickard. My brother will see Ser Wylis freed when he arrives at Harrenhal, and he’ll be escorted to Maidenpool, where a ship to White Harbor awaits. I want you to be on that ship with him.”

“A most interesting proposal, your grace.”

“I received a raven from Symond Frey shortly after he arrived in White Harbor. There’s a girl there, one who hails from a Wolfswood clan. Normally I wouldn’t spare two shits worth of thought about the whole lot of savages there, but I immediately thought of you when he told me. There’s a considerable profit to be had on ironwood from House Forrester.”

“Your grace, I don’t know what quite to say…”

“Say nothing, my lord. I demand nothing but your loyalty, to me and to Tommen. The Freys wish to make some sort of alliance with House Whitehill for ironwood, and it seems they’re using the Forresters as bargaining chips. I’ve not forgotten that no matter how they assisted us, they still turned their cloak when it suited them. I’d very much like you to keep an eye on everything, and ensure that the ironwood trade flows directly to the crown.”

“I’ve not been north in many a year, but the Forresters are a most curious sort. Lord Forrester married a Branfield girl during the time of the Mad King, the very same Branfields whom I owe everything to.”

“Robert was good for one thing at least, it would seem. But you, I believe, are meant for more than such a simple castle. Soon, I believe there’s going to be quite a sea change in the Reach, and should you prove loyal in this matter, I can assure you that not only will you be controlling the ironwood trade, but much more besides.”

“It would be my honor, your grace.”

“Good. Don’t disappoint me. You’ll set out for Maidenpool as soon as Lord Fatarse does as told. I’ve no doubt he will. And then...well, let the lords and ladies play Cyvasse. It’s no practice for the great game.”

\--Conversation between Dowager Queen Cersei Lannister and Lord Rickard Morgryn at King’s Landing, 300 AC

\---

“Lord Forrester, 

You have my deepest sympathies for what happened to your kin. It was a most craven act of betrayal, and though we are embroiled in problems of our own, know that House Glover stands behind you. I heard of how Ludd Whitehill so readily allied himself with the Boltons. He was always a most grasping, overambitious man who fretted at his house’s lack of ironwood craftsmanship, and no doubt thinks that rich rewards await him from the Iron Throne.

Though you may feel alone in your wroth, you need not feel that way for long. I am at White Harbor now, trying to raise men so that we all may right this injustice. Lord Manderly is a most accommodating man, and he tells me that a lord loyal to Stannis Baratheon is being held in the Wolf’s Den. I have no love for Stannis or any of his ilk, but he claims to seek justice for the Red Wedding, and vows to return Winterfell to House Stark. I apologize for not sending men to assist you, but at the moment, I am waiting for any news out of Deepwood Motte, where my wife and children are still held captive by the Ironborn. And I fear that my brother has not yet returned from the Neck, nor have I received any word from him. These are troubled times, no doubt.

As soon as I hear more, I’ll write you back in haste. Most dishonorable men have surrounded themselves around your home, but this farce will soon be at a close. 

Old Gods light your way.

Signed,

Robett Glover

\--Letter from Robett Glover to Ironrath, 300 AC

(Not discovered until much later.)


	8. A Restless Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gared and his newfound companions journey to Seagard, where they hope to catch passage north.

“Coulda let me steal that bugger’s horses…”

“Shut your bloody mouth, would ya?”

Karl and Cotter had been going back and forth since they left Sevenstreams, and Gared had spent the last several moons with a desire to murder both of them. Not that anyone was likely to miss cutthroat Karl, but Sylvi, as much as she argued with her brother, never passed up a chance to throw barbs at Karl and Finn any time a fight was about to break out. Gared tried his best to keep the peace, not simply between his newfound travelling companions, but with all passersby they chanced to cross. Finn wished to cut a purse for some coin, Karl wished to cut a throat for some horses. 

“Come on, the Mallisters won’t be half as bad as the Freys,” Finn had said.

True, they had left Sevenstream and Hag’s Mire behind them and were now roaming about Mallister land, but Gared had met Lord Jason once; he was a kind man, brave and loyal, but certainly not like to let a couple of bandits rob the smallfolk in his keep. The horse-breeder they had passed by shortly after departing Hag’s Mire may have been alone and an easy target, but Gared wished for no attention to be drawn to them, even with Finn insisting that they’d simply rough up the man a little. It wasn’t worth it; they’d reach Seagard one way or the other. Gared had already brought shame on himself by stealing those scabbards back in Sevenstreams, and he felt no further need to expedite his travels, much as he wished for a horse. Cotter initially wanted the horses all the same, but Sylvi had words for him on that front.

“We take from noble knobs and other arseholes. Steal a man’s horse and you’re no better than a bloody Frey. ‘Sides, you could do with the walk.”

Finn and Karl may have protested, but neither carried blades, nor were they like to run far enough from Sylvi’s arrows. Gared got to know all of them a bit more personally during their stay in Hag’s Mire the past moon. Cotter wished to not be called such, and went by his birth name, Owyn. When asked why he was called Cotter, he responded, “Fuck if I know. Just a name that stuck.” Both he and Sylvi shared the same mother, but a blind fool would’ve been able to tell they were only partly related. Owyn was lanky and tall, with scruffy dirty blonde hair and freckles, while Sylvi was small, with high cheekbones, silver hair, and purple eyes adorning a pale face. They had been inseparable since Sylvi was abandoned at Oldstones, and they used the chaos of the war to rob whom they considered “knobs” who wouldn’t need the coin. 

Sylvi remembered little and less about her father, only that he was a lord from the Narrow Sea who treasured a Valyrian dagger. According to their mother, Owyn’s sire was a strapping blonde lord who abandoned them to frolic on some voyage he never returned from. Gared thought of making a jape about their mother’s proclivities and nomadism, but thought the better of it. _Why should I care what a woman does with her body? Not like I can judge whores or bastards._ Finn was just a runaway from Hull who fell in with Karl, a lackadaisical, laconic sort who when he wasn’t making veiled threats to the others, wouldn’t quiet of his time spent in Flea Bottom as a paid killer. “Please don’t get him bloody started,” said Finn. “He won’t ever shut up about Gin Alley, and he’s worse when he’s drunk.” Karl proudly proclaimed that they called him “Tanner” because of his habits when dealing with his targets, but Finn confided to Gared that the truth was far more mundane. “He’s a tanner’s son. All there is to it. Not every tale needs some elaborate horseshit to make it sound better.”

They had been walking for the better part of a day, and the sun was passing the clouds like a jousting knight. Gared and Sylvi walked together down a quiet, dirt road while the boys hung in the back, bickering as usual. More refugees and deserters streamed past them, alongside the stream of the Blue Fork. Rhaenys hung from Gared’s back, still carefully concealed by the two scabbards.

“It’s all bullshit, you know. Nobles,” she said. “Why’s it that my da didn’t think of me as his daughter? I could be livin’ in one of those fancy castles and not stuck faffin’ about here, havin’ to take the coin.”

“When I was a boy, I thought the same. Drinking wine from diamond goblets is always a bloody sight better than shoveling pig shit,” said Gared.

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, you got to be someone, didn’t ya? Lord Tuttle. If I had an uncle who got in good with a lord, I’d be happy too.”

“Lord Forrester had a pair of bastards,” he said. As he attempted to keep his eyes ahead of him, they kept wandering back to Sylvi’s face. “You think the nobles respect them? Bastards or peasants, it’s all the same to them. Lord Stark had a bastard; you know what they called him? ‘Lord Snow’. They’ll never be accepted, they’ll never become lord of anything, and everywhere they go, they’ll have arseholes laughing behind their backs.” Josie and Elsie were family to all in Ironrath, but Ludd Whitehill and his sons never let Gregor hear the end of it, and Ludd was proud to say that none in his family would ever acknowledge a bastard. Gared remembered Gryff, grasping little shit, jape about the twins’ mother being too good for a Forrester.

Sylvi turned to Gared and her eyes went wide. “Oh, such hard lives they lead! Tell me somethin’. Are they clothed and fed?”

“Yeah…”

“And are they allowed in the castle? Y’know, allowed to stay and touch?”

_Shouldn’t have even brought it up._ “You care to speak your mind, Sylvi? Go ahead and speak it, but quit the dancin’ around bullshit.”

She tilted her head upwards and let out a laugh. “I’m sayin’ that you just don’t get it, Gared. You seem to have forgot where you came from, because that’s a lord talkin’ right there. You think Cotter or me would say no to any a’ that? You think we give a toss what a lord says ‘bout us?”

“Knock ‘em to the ground, we hear that shit,” Owyn said in a deadpan tone.

“We’re bastards, Gared. Lordly bastards. It ain’t right that your lord’s bastards get to wake up every mornin’ and get their bellies full while we’re out here hopin’ for a stray rabbit.”

Gared heard Finn spit into the dirt. “Nothin’ ever fuckin’ changes. Lords fight for more soddin’ castles to keep us out of.”

“Not every lord is a Lannister or a Frey,” said Gared, clearly outnumbered. “You got Starks, Glovers, Forresters…”

“They’re all the fuckin’ same. Wolf, lion, tree, who gives a shit?” spoke Karl, his voice as rough as sand. “Only way to change things is to climb up.”

Sylvi turned back to Karl, her purple eyes cutting into him. “You sayin’ you don’t give a shit who you step over, long as you’re fed and happy?”

He half-smiled, and then scoffed. “It’s all about what you take. You’re kept down, then just take what some richer bastard has. Only way you’ll ever get anywhere. That’s all life is.”

“Spoken like a Lannister,” said Gared as he flicked his hair back, his eyes focused on the path ahead. “Mayhaps you’d fit in well with that lot.”

“Mayhaps I would,” was Karl’s reply. “Whoever holds the coin, that’s all that matters. All there is.”

Owyn strode up to the two of them. “You’ve been with us enough to have an opinion. What of it?”

“What of what?” asked Gared, flippantly. “My parents are pig farmers, I just got lucky. You want me to bitch about it?”

“We want you to have some appreciation,” said Sylvi. “Not so easy out here, is it? Livin’ off the land, no castle to protect you, just you and us, Gared. How you like it?”

Looking at the siblings beside him, he grinned. “Spending my time with you daft lot is something I always dreamed of. That answer your question?”

Sylvi gave Gared a shove forward, unable to mask her smile, while Owyn turned away, his hand over his mouth.

“Isn’t this lovely? The lordling frolicking with the commoners. Who’d a’ thought it?” said Sylvi as she moved closer to Gared. “Hope you’re learnin’ somethin’ out here with us peasants.” 

_Indeed, that I hate the fucking south._ Sylvi’s words were true enough; he missed all of Ironrath - Elissa’s cooking, Rodrik’s sharp tongue, all of it - and he never wished to go back to pig shit again. He took another look at Sylvi, and she returned the glance, her smile long and mischievous. Not long ago, he too was like them, wishing for the days of sleeping in a castle under warm coverlets rather than freezing in a filthy hovel.

The gentle trees and grass of the Riverlands gave way to the gaping expanse of Ironman’s Bay, its waters going on for an eternity. And in the distance stood a castle rising into the sky, and alongside it, a series of towers standing on giant rocks that reached up to the mainland. A series of longships encircled the rocks, its sails flying the silver eagle of House Mallister. 

“Would you lot look at that…” Owyn began as he stared off at the castle. “Did fuckin’ giants build it?”

Sylvi and Finn looked at the towers in awe, while Karl gave a dismissive shake of his head. “Yeah, I’d rather not be holed up in there if the sea rose up. These lords lack not for riches but for wits.”

“You’re right, Karl,” said Gared with a roll of his eyes. “Flea Bottom is where I’d want to be in a storm, on the ground in some tanner’s rather than high above on rocks. Mayhaps you can tell Lord Mallister that when you weren’t cutting throats, you were a bard who felt the need to sing about every bloody thing that crossed your mind. Who knows? He might even make you his singer.”

Karl petulantly glared at Finn, who crossed his arms and turned away, before turning back to Gared, his eyes looking up from under his brow. “Keep runnin’ your fuckin’ mouth, boy, and I’ll sing you a bloody song,” he said while inching towards Gared. “It’s called _The Screaming Squire._ I quite like that one. Care to hear it?”

_Give me a reason, Karl. Give me a reason to lop your fucking head off._ “Let me find a sword for you, make it a fair fight.” Gared tensed up, ready to unsheathe Rhaenys at the vaguest hint of aggression. “Plenty lyin’ around, held by men worth more than your arse.”

He advanced on Gared, his fists clenched tightly. “Haven’t lost a fight since I was nine. Think I need a sword to gut your fuckin’ arse?”

Owyn smiled widely. “Well come then, ‘ser’. I wanna see that sword take your bloody head off.”

Sylvi jumped in between them. “Hey! All a’ you fuckin’ shut up! We’re here together, ain’t we? You lot really come all this way just to end up like these poor sods?” and she gestured to a pair of trees overlooking the bay, where several bodies lay; one had a sword stuck through his torso and into the tree trunk, while another’s throat was cut, and blood congealed around his neck. His sword still held in his hand, and were it not for the blood, one might’ve thought he was merely resting.

Gared and Karl stared at each other a moment longer; Karl’s eyes were dark, hollow orbs, and they seemed to stare straight through Gared. “Not bloody worth it,” whispered Finn as he tried pulling Karl away, only for the taller man to jerk his arm upwards in a violent swing.

Turning away, Gared felt his heart race. He paced forward, blood rushing through his veins like a strong brandy. 

“You bloody daft?” Sylvi whispered to him. “Lookin’ to get yourself bloodless?”

“A man without steel in his hands hardly concerns me in a fight.” Gared turned back to Karl, whom Finn was trying to keep calm; such a task was most insurmountable, for Karl Tanner was not unlike a malnourished dog, his nostrils flaring heavy enough for cool air to visibly exhale outwards. Owyn kept his broad smile as he faced away from them.

Sylvi looked sourly at Gared, and seemed on the verge of laughing. “Steel or no, probably not best to roll around in pig shit with him. You Northerners think everyone else’ll fight with honor, and it makes ya blind. Mayhaps that’s why your king got so easily gutted like a nice fish.”

“ _Don’t._ ” Gared felt the blood rush through him again. “He was worth five of that lump of shit.”

Her eyes fluttered and she looked away quickly. “I’m...sorry, I shouldn’t have said it. He must’ve meant a lot to you.”

_More than you lot could possibly know._

“Dunno how you can love a king so, but, well…” she trailed off and looked into the distance, towards the castle. “I s’pose loyalty’s not so bad. Better than the cunts who butchered him had.”

He looked back towards Karl, who’s eyes were focused on the squire as if he were a leg of mutton. “Need to cut him loose one way or the other.”

“You get in a fight with ‘im, it may just be your last. And can’t exactly tell ‘im to fuck off either, less you want to take the chance of him running to the Freys and getting them on our arses.”

“If I toss him overboard the boat, you care to help me?”

“Happily,” she said with a smile.

Gared had not seen any roving bands of Freys yet, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lurking about somewhere. No doubt the mood at the Twins was jolly; that lot was fit for brooding over how all disrespected them, and surely, they felt this would inspire fear where all else had failed. He knew not the moods of southerners, but if he forgot everything else, always would he take with him the craven betrayal the Freys had done. They had taken their tolls for generations, and now it seemed as good a time as any to take his own pound of flesh from any Freys he happened across. He thought back to Tom o’ Sevens and the Brotherhood without Banners, and had a half mind to run off and join them if they offered a chance at vengeance.

  


Seagard fell upon them as the sun began to wane. Its town beckoned to them, its bricked homes rising elegantly towards the castle. 

Sylvi could barely contain herself. “Look at the size of those rocks! Gods, what I’d give to live up there…”

“Gared?” asked Owyn. “How are the Mallisters? Are they as craven as the Freys?”

Gared cast his gaze towards the massive towers. “They’re loyal. That’s what matters.”

“Freys were loyal, too.” said Finn with his arms crossed. “And the Boltons…”

The squire quickly turned back to Finn. “Roose Bolton isn’t fit to clean Lord Mallister’s sword. Don’t ever think to compare the two.”

Karl scoffed, clicking his tongue in mock amazement. “Well, lead on then, milord,” and he leaned down as if to curtsy, spreading his arms.

“Sod off, would you, yeah?” Gared gave a wave of his hand as he turned towards the portcullis, where the Mallister eagle flapped in the wind.

They all approached the gatehouse, where refugees crowded around, and a line of soldiers draped in purple and silver cloaks held spears at the ready. The portcullis was open, but a sour-faced man stood in front of them, his arms crossed and two spear-wielding guards flanking him. He spoke to the gathered crowd, but Gared could hear nothing over their roaring. Gared pushed through the throng, familiar sigils staring him in the face - Blackwood, Cerwyn, even Westerling - they were all looking to escape the madness that had ensnared the realm, most looking as if they had been in a fight with a shadowcat. A few at a time would stream through the gatehouse and into the town, only for more to take to their places. As they blended in with the crowd, the man at the front paid them little notice. 

“None ever notice a serf,” said Owyn quietly.

“‘Til they start liftin’ the good silver!” Sylvi answered with a giggle.

Gared took sight of a large tower that housed a massive bronze bell; they called it the Booming Tower, and while he’d never set foot in King’s Landing, he would’ve been happy to wager that the Mallisters had more elegant craftsmanship. _For southerners, anyway._ A green rockside crept up towards the homes and shops, and the town seemed to rise ever higher towards the magnificent castle beyond. Refugees, soldier and commoner alike, shuffled through Seagard, desperate for some solace from the great game the lords played. Standing on the cliffside, they took in the waves crashing in from the great bay, while Owyn teased Finn and Karl about falling in. 

Sylvi looked about the town, at the wandering refugees and strutting nobles, and then whispered something into Owyn’s ear, who beckoned Finn and Karl to follow him into the crowd.

Gared and Sylvi looked off towards the setting sun, the water cast out for a millenia. 

“So, this is where the lords call home, is it? Up and away from all of us rabble?” She seemed wistful, even with her barbs, as she took sight of the castle and its towers standing tall on the rocks. “If my da weren’t a selfish cunt, I’d be living on Driftmark, bein’ waited on and no worries ‘cept fightin’ and fuckin’.”

He looked at her face, illuminated by the sunlight, her purple eyes tiredly watching the water. She was petite and barely a woman grown, yet she wielded a bow and arrow like she’d been born with them. As she flicked back a lock of silver hair, she smiled faintly.

“Ironrath’s not so grand,” he said. The small trading center outside the castle walls would’ve been easily dwarfed three times over by Seagard’s town. “But it’s home, all the same.”

“You...miss it, do ya?” She turned towards him, and he looked for any hint of a coming jape, but saw only curiosity and yearning.

He had been to many a castle in his travels with Lord Forrester; some were modest and sparse, some magnificent and lavish, but there was truly only one place for him. “Seagard, Winterfell, Riverurn...all have their charms, but none can replace home.” 

Sylvi turned back to the climbing towers. “I don’t need this fancy shit. I don’t want a palace with a thousand rooms and a hundred fuckin’ privies. Just somewhere out of the cold.” Her eyebrows arched downwards. “But shit never changes. This war’ll be over and things’ll change for the bloody lords, but what of us? Same shit, different masters, same as it’s always been.”

“It’s hard to change things, but it doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

“You really believe that, don’t you? You really do,” she cast her glare back on him. “S’pose hope is good, too. But if you want to change shit, Gared, then you can’t think like a bleedin’ lord anymore. You think Lord Mannister in his fancy fuckin’ castle ever spent a day seein’ how we lot live? Only way to make ‘em see is to take what’s theirs; punch ‘em straight in the fuckin’ purse strings.”

Gared moved to speak, to insist that the Mallisters were honorable, decent sorts who’d never let their people starve if they could’ve helped it, but as Sylvi’s eyes looked into his, he couldn’t quite argue with her. He had started out in pig shit and it was only by luck that his family rose above that. Mayhaps there would’ve been a House Tuttle after the North became free, and Gared’s family would never need to worry about going hungry again. But the likes of Sylvi, Owyn, and even Finn were not like to ever have that chance if the politics stayed the same as they’d been.

“Ah, you’re thinkin’, aren’t ya? Love it when you get all...thinky,” said Sylvi with a wolfish grin. 

He blushed at that, and she picked up on it and laughed towards the sky. 

“Gods, Gared, you’re too much fun! Like you’ve never travelled with a girl before?”

“Course I have…” he ran a hand through his hair and looked back towards the bay. “King Robb had one in his honor guard, from Bear Island. One minute she’d be swingin’ a mace and dancing the next.” He didn’t even want to imagine what those bastards had done to Dacey; she’d been protecting Robb at the wedding along with countless other young heirs. Mayhaps she’d been lucky, but luck had been about as common as a beautiful maiden begging to be pleasured at the Twins that night.

Sylvi nodded in approval. “I can’t quite bloody well dance, but I’ll try just about anythin’.” She started pancing about the cliffside; it resembled dancing about as much as a dove resembled a fish, but she was giddy with laughter, and Gared couldn’t help but share her merriment. As she twirled around, her foot slipped and she began tumbling backwards, waving her arms in a mad flurry. Gared sprinted to Sylvi and grabbed her before the bay swallowed her, leaning over her like they were in the midst of a dance. “I, uh...wow!” She chuckled, her face pink. “I meant to do that, of course! Lords just dance funny, is all.” Gared stood her back on her feet and she giggled still more, averting her eyes.

“Syl!” a voice called out. Owyn glided towards them, a smile on his face and a purse in his hand. Finn followed behind, tossing a purse of his own into the air.

“Sure took your time, boys,” she said as she crossed her arms.

“But it was bloody well worth it for this,” and he opened the purse, throwing a golden coin into Sylvi’s hands.

Gared looked at the coin, a beautiful gold dragon, and then back at Owyn’s smiling face. “Are you bloody mad? Tryin’ to get us all hanged?”

Owyn tossed him a coin, and he caught it as it nearly flew behind him and into the bay below. “You wanna complain about a pay day? Thought you lords would sell your own daughters for a groat.”

Sylvi rushed over to her brother and grabbed the purse. As she looked inside, her face lit up. “Wow…” She gave Owyn a quick peck on the cheek. “Meetin’ you was the best thing we’ve done in a while, Gared! Lots a’ fat nobles here who need their purses cut.”

_Seven bloody hells._ “Thanks. Always wanted to help a lot of daft loons get themselves quartered.”

Finn opened a purse of his own and pulled out a silver stag. Owyn looked at his haul and shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Not lordly enough, that one.”

Gared looked into the red sky and closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear into nothingness. The Wall didn’t seem half as bad as spending a week in Frey dungeons having his eyes plucked out, but it was a choice of being poisoned or getting disemboweled. “Who, Finn, may I ask did you relieve that from?”

The broad-shouldered man shrugged and said, “Some knob with a lot of birds on his cloak. He’s so drunk, he won’t miss it.”

The squire looked around at the thinning group. “Where the bloody hell is Karl?”

“Who fuckin’ cares? Dumbarse couldn’t even take a cake from a child,” Finn replied. “Probably goin’ to get drunk or somethin’.”

Gared sighed and took off in the direction of the tavern, the others calling after him. As much as he wished to cut dead weight loose, he wasn’t the least interested in Karl running off to tell someone who liked Joffrey about his travelling companions. As he rounded on the tavern, he found a crowd of soldiers gathered outside, drinking and singing. _Enough to make those bards at the Twins sound sweet._ Among the listless, tone-deaf cacophony of wailing, he heard what sounded like fighting coming from the alley in the back. He ran towards the sound and heard a woman’s voice yell out. He found Karl roughly shoving a lustily dressed courtesan against a wall as she screamed into his face.

“You bloody arsehole, you think I’m laying with you without seein’ coin?”

Karl tightly held the woman, pushing her hands away from his face. Her nails were long enough to claw an eye out. “You’re not fuckin’ worth the coin. Now shut your bloody mouth.”

She saw Gared as he approached, and Karl turned to face him. The courtesan saw the opportunity and broke free of the cutthroat’s grasp, smacking him across the face. “Bloody lump of shit!”

Karl’s face twisted into rage, and he grabbed the woman by the neck with his slim, scarred hands. He was too busy to notice Gared grabbing him by the collar, nor did he have time to react to the squire’s fist bearing into his face. Gared felt bone crunch and grabbed his hand in pain.

“You little fuck…” Karl spit out a wad of blood and moved on Gared, only to stop in his tracks as his eyes moved past the squire. 

Gared turned to see the others had caught up with him; Sylvi and Owyn’s hands rested on their daggers, while Finn’s arms were crossed and he glared at Karl, his face almost stone. The courtesan spit in Karl’s face, causing him to flinch.

“Bloody fuckin’ cunt…” she mumbled.

As she pushed past the group, Sylvi slipped something into her hands. “Go clean yourself up.”

She stormed away, leaving the group to fight amongst themselves. Karl was tense and looked ready to pounce, but found himself at a disadvantage.

“Well, come on then,” he beckoned to Gared. “Lotsa dumb fuckin’ boys have tried.”

Gared’s hand went to the Piper dagger in his hilt, but Finn stopped him. “Who’s always sayin’ to be bloody careful? Kill ‘im and they’ll find the body,” he whispered.

Karl still stood ready to fight, but Finn’s words rang true. 

“I’m done dragging your arse around. Now sod off,” said Gared curtly.

Karl Tanner smiled from ear to ear and licked the blood on his lips. “Yeah, that’s what I fuckin’ thought. Come on, Finn. Fuck this lot.” He pushed through the group and paced towards the street, but Finn stayed behind, glaring at him. “Are you fuckin’ deaf, Finn?” He turned back and glared at his partner. “Bloody come on!”

Finn shook his head and turned away. Sylvi and Owyn smiled broadly at Karl as he shook.

“Fine. You always was a fuckin’ craven. Next time I see any a’ you, it’ll be at the end of a blade,” and he took off, disappearing into the crowd.

“Let’s hope we’re gone by the time he finds the Freys,” said Owyn.

Gared spat onto the grimy ground. “Let him swim across the bloody Trident.”

They made towards the castle, past the crowd of refugees and up a wide brick stairwell. The gatehouse to the magnificent towers lay ahead of them.

Owyn strode up beside Gared and whispered to him, “I see you’re havin’ fun with my sister.”

Gared turned to him, at a loss for words. In truth, their little flight of fancy had been fun enough, but… 

“Hey, I’m not sayin’ nothin’. Do as you wish, but respect her, or else…”

“You’ll gut me like a fuckin’ fish?” Gared deadpanned.

“Me? No,” he said, half-grinning. “But she will.”

He looked at Sylvi as she parted her hair and believed every word of what her brother had said. 

The gatehouse was tall and uninviting, and a ring of purple-cloaked guardsmen stood there, watching all new arrivals. Nobles and refugees alike crowded before the lowered portcullis, clamoring for an audience with the lord, and on the battlements above, archers patrolled, bows at the ready. Standing in front of the gatehouse was a younger looking man, his hand on his sword hilt as he took sight of the group.

“Hold there!” shouted the guard captain. “State your business, boy!”

Gared pushed past a pair of soldiers, finding an opening near the front of the crowd. “I need to speak to Lord Mallister! Is he here?”

The captain laughed at him, his arms never coming uncrossed. “Is he here?” He turned to the guards at his sides, all laughing as if it was the funniest jape they’d ever heard. “What do you think, boy? His lordship obviously isn’t out frolicking with maidens right now. As you can no doubt see, Lord Mallister has his hands full with seven only knows how many seeking refuge. I’m afraid he has no time to treat with a few simple peasants.”

Gared looked down at his coat where he’d torn off the tree and sword days past. _Bloody brilliant._

Sylvi shook her head. “Such compassion from this lot.”

“Ser, I came from the Twins! I was there when…”

“Yes, I’ve heard it a hundred times now,” said the captain as he held his gloved hand up. “Where do you think these poor fools are coming from? Unless you’ve news of Patrek, I’m afraid that Lord Mallister is far too busy with his own woes. I have no need to entertain you. Go back into town, you lot clearly have no need of being here.”

Patrek Mallister had been one of the young lordlings who accompanied King Robb in every battle; all of that lot had been at the Twins, and if any survived, Gared didn’t want to imagine the Freys' hospitality.

“I served Lord Forrester,” pleaded Gared, hoping any words would sway the bored captain. “Squired for him when he fell. Please, he knew Lord Mallister, and I…”

The captain raised his hand again. “Yes, yes, I imagine. You’re a squire and I’m the king’s steadfast friend. Turned into an eagle when he became a wolf and we tore through lions together.” He scoffed and gave the group a lookover. “Don’t tell me; your lady friend here is Princess Nymeria, and the two fellows with you are Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower come again.”

“Bloody whelp,” mumbled Finn. 

“Fine plan this is, Gared. A fine idea, indeed. The Mallisters do so love the smallfolk,” said Owyn, his voice dripping with contempt.

Gared sighed and threw up his hands. “I met Lord Mallister at Hag’s Mire! He’d remember the Forresters!”

Absently, the captain shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You really do so love to keep this charade going. You were at Hag’s Mire, were you? Were you perchance sweeping the tavern floor?” He and his guards laughed at that. 

“Fuck this lot,” said Sylvi.

His face quickly turned red. “You dare speak to me that way, you bloody wench? Mayhaps you’d like if I removed your fucking tongue? Wouldn’t be so quick with the japes then, would you?”

Owyn stepped forward, but Gared held him back, whispering for him to not be bloody stupid. “My friend here does happen to be a lord’s daughter, but you disbelieve everything we say, so I won’t bother trying to explain it to you.”

Sylvi looked at Gared in surprise, while the captain gave a dismissive shrug. 

“Mayhaps this will convince you that I speak truthfully?” He pulled Rhaenys from his back and tore off the scabbards; the guards abruptly unsheathed their own swords and pointed them straight at Gared’s heart, while the gathered crowd quickly backed away.

“Not a fucking step further,” cautioned the captain as he tightly held his sword. “You even try to swing that and my men will take your fucking head clean off.” He gestured up to the battlements, where a pair of archers aimed their bows at the group. “Now you’ve about ten seconds to fuck back off to wherever you bloody came from before your blood washes over the grass.”

The squire took a deep breath; Sylvi’s hand was on her bow while Owyn stood ready to unloose his sword. Finn, lacking any weapons entirely, scanned the battlements for any sign of aggression. Quickly, he ran the greatsword to the ground blade first and pointed at the green ironwood tree emblazoned on the silver hilt. “This was Lord Forrester’s sword. You think I’m a blacksmith who just stuck this tree on here?”

It was silent but for the crashing of waves against the rocks. A stray move could’ve easily caused the archers to unloose their arrows on the group, and none had shields to protect them. The captain’s eyes went from the sword to Gared and back to the sword.

“So then, you have a Forrester sword. Who’s to say you’re not a fucking Frey who took it off Lord Gregor’s body before it was cold?”

Sylvi, her hand still on her bow, spoke out. “We’ve no love of that lot. They’re bloody cravens, all of ‘em.”

“Lord Forrester’s last wish was for me to return this sword to his family,” said Gared, his heart racing and his eyes narrowed in a most disorienting fashion. “Lord Mallister can support this claim, if you’ll bring him word.” The captain’s eyes would linger on Gared for a moment before going back to the sword, and the smile he so readily wore before was turned to a motionless frown. “Please, ser.”

He slowly nodded, casting glances at his men, and lowered his sword. “I don’t quite believe a bloody word of it, but if you are who you say and his lordship finds that I turned you away…” The captain put his sword back in his hilt and nodded again. “Fine, I’ll send word at once. If I find your words are false, then you’ll bloody well have wished to have taken my offer to leave. Now, if you’ll please hand me the sword.”

He extended his hand towards Gared; the squire looked apprehensively at Rhaenys, fearing he might not see it returned. Still, it was his only chance. Sylvi nodded at him, her hand now away from her bow. Sighing, he hoisted the greatsword into the captain’s hands; he nearly stumbled at its weight.

“Please wait here,” he said. Turning away, he gave his men orders to watch the group, and then he disappeared into the castle grounds. 

The guards had lowered their swords and bows, but still watched the group with much apprehension. Gared peered towards the battlements, where the archers clutched their bows as they cast their gaze downwards.

“If this goes ugly, Gared, I doubt I’ll be able to draw fast enough,” Sylvi said as she looked upwards.

_A rain of arrows would be preferable to whatever they plan elsewise._

It felt like an eternity waiting there, the household guard looking for any excuse to poke holes into the lot of them. The Mallister eagle flew overhead above the portcullis, flapping in the wind, while eagles in the sky broke the cold silence. The sun was hovering over Ironman’s Bay, nearly blinding Gared. At last, the captain returned, his expression one of resignation.

“Lord Mallister will see you in the hall,” he said tiredly. “If you will, please follow me.”

All relaxed at those words; Gared felt his heart slow, and he saw the guards sheathe their swords and disperse. The group followed the captain into the courtyard, and above them stood the great towers of Seagard, looming over all.

  


Their weapons were taken before being let into the castle; Sylvi and Owyn protested, but were in no mood to argue much with a dozen guards on edge. Finn seemed pleased that he was no longer the only one unarmed in their group. As the captain pulled the Piper dagger from Gared’s hilt, his eyes nearly popped from his head.

“What do we have here?” he deadpanned as he flipped the knife around to face Gared, its naked maiden prancing on the hilt. “Next you’ll tell me your Lord Piper’s fucking nephew.”

“It’s a long story…” started Gared.

“Enough. You’re close enough to losing your blood as it is. We’ll let his lordship take care of you.”

The guard captain led them through a set of ornate silver doors carved with etches, and down a hallway into the great hall. It was dark and gloomy but for the hearth, and in front sat a man with his back to them, a maester in brown robes and wielding a silver chain around his neck sitting next to him.

“So, you’re Gregor’s squire, are you?” his voice echoed throughout the hall. Gared saw that he held Rhaenys in his lap, and his eyes were fixed on the greatsword. “Tell me something then. How many children does his lordship have?”

“Eight,” the answer came easily to Gared. _Gods, I hope he knows about the twins._

Lord Jason Mallister stood up and faced the group, towering over his new arrivals. Sylvi must have felt like a dwarf compared to him. “Very good,” he said with a nod.

“Could be just a lucky guess, my lord,” said the guard captain as he tugged on the back of his hair.

The Lord of Seagard looked over Gared, and asked, “And...Alexia Forrester’s youngest child’s name?”

Gared thought for a moment; he hadn’t so much contact with either of Gregor’s sisters or their children, but he remembered meeting Sanya and Alexia at Ironrath once. “Sybelle,” he said. “After Lord Glover’s good sister.”

Lord Jason nodded once more, his blue eyes light enough to illuminate his face. “And, if you are indeed Lord Gregor’s squire, then you’ll have no doubt been to Ironrath. Tell me, what hangs by the hearth?”

This was one much easier for Gared. “A painting of House Forrester, of Lord and Lady Forrester and their children.”

He smiled slightly and raised a set of fingers. “That was mayhaps a touch easy. Who stand on opposite sides in that painting, and who are they?”

The squire thought for a moment, back to that painting, remembered Lady Elissa’s words about her two eldest sons. _So close, and yet so far._ “Rodrik and Asher, standing facing away from each other.”

The lord approached them, his shadow washing over all. Sylvi had to nearly tilt her head to the ceiling to look up at him. “Very good,” he said, and then smiled warmly before turning to the captain. “You may leave us now, Ser Morgan.”

A look of bewilderment came over Morgan’s face. “But my lord, he could be a common thief for all we know! Look what he had on him!” He brandished the Piper dagger and flipped it so that its blade faced him. Lord Jason took the dagger and looked over it, a half-smile forming on his mouth as he took sight of the maiden.

“Curious. But it doesn’t disprove a word of what he said.” said Jason Mallister. “Either he’s a squire or a very, very great thief indeed to know all of this. Now please, take your leave. I have business to discuss with our friend here.”

Morgan was about to speak, but resigned himself to Lord Mallister’s command. Bowing, he then strode from the hall, leaving a small detachment of purple-cloaked guards behind.

“I do apologize. Morgan is simply weary after what happened at the Twins.”

“We all are, my lord.”

“Well then, I believe I don’t have your name,” he said. “Your face does have a certain familiarity to it though, I must say.”

“I’m Gared Tuttle, my lord,” said the squire, his heart relaxing. “You spoke to Lord Forrester at Hag’s Mire, and he introduced us.”

Jason carefully looked at Gared, squinting his eyes as he searched for some clue. “Ah, I see.” A dawning look came over his face. “Yes, I thought I recalled you. And uh,” he looked over the rest of the group. “Friends of yours, I take it?”

They all glared at Gared. Sylvi’s expression said all that words could not.

“Just refugees fleeing the Freys. They’ll be no trouble to you.” He then glared at the others in kind. “I promise,” he said through clenched teeth.

Sylvi quickly went doe-eyed and smiled. “Oh, of course not, milord! No trouble a’tall!” Owyn and Finn quickly mumbled affirmations, as well.

Jason nodded and then looked over the dagger once more. Gared’s heartbeat flared once again. “Curious dagger, this. I know that maiden anywhere. If I’m not mistaken, there was a terrible murder at Pinkmaiden some nights back. One of Lord Clement’s knightly cousins, I believe. They say that a dagger like this was missing.” He looked over Gared from above, his face pure marble. “I doubt a man of the North like yourself would ever think to do such a horrible thing, but...mayhaps you know something of it?” And he showed the ornate blue hilt of the dagger again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gared could see Finn sweating so much that one could have easily taken a bath in it. The runaway from Hull was a most curious sort, not near as hateful as his former acquaintance. _But what if it is as they say?_ Finn had more or less admitted to killing the knight, but claimed it was self-defense. How many were gelded or had their tongue cut out or were sent to the Wall for the sin of being lowborn? 

“There was a fellow, very scarred face. Said he had been killing across the land since he left Flea Bottom. Tried to cut our purses on the road over, said he got that knife by slitting a lord’s throat.” _Am I now as guilty as the cravens who spoke sweet lies?_ “If it weren’t for Sylvi here, he would’ve cut mine as well. So I thought to return the dagger, but I didn’t wish to chance running into the Freys.” Jason listened to his story intently and nodded along. “That’s all, my lord. Every word of it is true.”

Finn seemed taken aback by Gared’s story, and he blushed brightly. Sylvi and Owyn both smiled at the squire. Lord Jason nodded still more, and then gave the dagger another look.

“Madness. This thrice-damned war has caused nothing but bloody madness. When we’re not being knifed in the back by our allies, we’ve got to worry about cutthroats and rapers praying on us all.” He looked at Gared. “Thank you for telling me. If I may ask, what happened to the cutpurse?”

Gared shrugged. “Ran off,” he said. “Saw Sylvi’s bow and just ran, I think he was drunk.” _Let them deal with Karl. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll quite live up to his boasts._

Jason nodded. “I’ll see if I can spare any men to track him. He’s not the first to ravage my keep; I remember this poacher my riders caught, years back. Gave him a choice of losing a hand or going to the Wall. He was very much inclined to keep that hand.” He turned the dagger over to the maester sitting by the hearth. “Lord Clement should know that his cousin’s dagger was found safely. Now then,” and he turned back to the group. “I need to speak with you, Gared, and if your friends here behave themselves as you say, I’ll see that they’re provided for. Maester Benneth here will take good care of them.”

The maester rose and beckoned for the others to follow him. Finn turned to Gared and mouthed a “thank you” to him, while Owyn shook his head and Sylvi smiled and winked. _Hope you enjoy the Mallisters’ hospitality. Mayhaps you’ll live out your fantasy for a moon._ Gared followed Jason out to a balcony that overlooked the crashing waves. His lordship produced a bottle of wine from a nearby table and poured goblets for both men. Lord Jason was strong and handsome, his graying hair not quite matching his lean face, with high cheekbones that stuck out just under his eyes. While he had been clean shaven at Hag’s Mire, his beard had grown back out and was meeting his thinning hair.

“Were you...at the Twins?” He took a drink from his goblet and looked at Gared with sagging eyes; Gared slowly nodded. “Gregor was a great man. I remember meeting him at Lannisport after the Greyjoys were put down. Saw him unhorse Bronze Yohn before the Kingslayer did the same to him. I’m truly sorry this happened.”

_None will ever see his like again._ “I saw him fall. Wished I was there with him to the end.” Gared took a drink from his goblet; it tasted as sweet as honey going down.

Lord Jason leaned over the balcony and looked towards the sun as it set behind the massive rock towers. “After my brother was killed in the rebellion, I wished the same. It’s not right that such honorable men should fall with none to so quickly take their place.” He turned quickly to the squire. “Tell me, do you have news of my son? Of Patrek?”

Gared shook his head. He had last seen Patrek accompanying Robb to the feast. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I don’t. I just remember seeing the Freys cutting open Ser Ashton.”

The Lord of Seagard tilted his head towards the sea and closed his eyes. “Bloody cravens...he was my brother’s son. I had hoped…” He looked back up. “My wife rarely leaves her bedchambers, and my daughter won’t stop crying.” His eyes grew fierce. “We have a Frey boy here. Wendel, old Walder’s son. He’s doubtless too young to have known what his family wrought, but if I hear harm has come to Patrek…” His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his skin and blood was beginning to drip down to the floor. He let out a groan of pain and slammed his goblet down as he grabbed his hand. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“I feel the same as you, my lord. Not being there to shield the blow…” Looking off towards the sun, he felt tears begin to welt in his eyes. “My lord, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“You need passage north, yes?” Gared nodded hurriedly. “Not enough would keep such a promise, and Gregor always did right by me.” The lord waved towards a series of longships in the bay. “It’s funny. The Ironborn thought it simple to attack here. These ships have served my family well, and I’ll see to it that one shall ferry you to Rillwater Crossing on the morn.”

Gared’s legs felt soft and watery, and the goblet nearly slipped from his hands. “My lord, I...thank you, my lord. Thank you.”

Jason smiled, even as he wiped the blood from his hands. “As I said, not many would keep such a promise. Until then, you and your companions are welcome to stay the moon; I’ll have a guest chamber made available. And all of your weapons shall be returned to you then, as well.”

Maester Benneth walked onto the balcony and saw Jason’s hands coated in blood. “My lord, what…”

“It’s just a scratch, I’ll be fine. Please see Gared here to his chambers.”

The maester led Gared through the hall and up the winding stairwell that led to the great tower above. “I believe your companions are already making themselves comfortable. Rather curious lot you travel with.”

_Indeed._ Banneth opened one of the doors, and Gared walked in only to nearly be tackled to the floor by Sylvi. 

She indeed enjoyed being a princess for a moon.

  


The morning sun brought with it the promise of a fresh slate for all, and it seemed as if Gared’s luck was turning for the better. The group had bathed and been fed, and it was the best meal Gared had since Ironrath. It was simple to tell the birth of his companions, for they all devoured their meals as if they’d never been fed a day in their lives. They certainly had never feasted so well without the feelings of guilt. All had received fresh clothing; Gared traded his grimy green and white doublet for a plush indigo leather jerkin, while Owyn and Finn wore finely crafted longshirts and even Sylvi wore an indigo dress and skirt in place of her filthy wool coat. She had never seen such elegance in all her life and went wild at the thought of new clothes and braids in her long, silver hair. She seemed almost completely new, and one could have easily been fooled to think the princess and the bandit were not one and the same. Gared knew, however, that she wore steel in her silk, new wardrobe or not. The guards and servants kept watchful eyes on the group, their expressions ranging from wry amusement to utter revulsion at the thought of entertaining common peasants. 

“Fuck this lot. They oughta spend time sleepin’ in the woods and eatin’ rats,” Sylvi had said. “Then they wouldn’t be so fuckin’ glum at the sight of us.”

Gared woke as the sun hurried forth and noticed that Sylvi did not lay asleep. _Not a bloody fine time to go cutting purses._ He had little time to dwell on such thoughts, for Maester Benneth summoned him to meet Lord Mallister in his solar. Gared threw on his jerkin and rushed towards the solar, where he found his lordship reading a book, dressed in a fine wool indigo cloak bearing the proud eagle of his house

“The _Sea Princess_ is docked and ready for you at your leave,” he said, putting down the book. “Small vessel, but you should find it more than adequate for your purposes. I’ve also had the weapons of your companions restored, as well as Lord Forrester’s sword.”

The young squire stammered to get his words out; as long as he had been around Lord Gregor, he still found it quite challenging when asked to exchange words with great lords and ladies. “I really do appreciate this, my lord, and as soon as I’m back at Ironrath, I’ll find some way to repay you.”

Lord Jason waved his hand and said, “All I need to know is if the Northmen will bring allies to fight this injustice.”

Gared thought back to his encounter with Tom o’ Sevens all those days past. The harp player had said, as cryptically as he possibly could have, that those behind the Red Wedding would not walk away from their sins. “My lord, what do you know of the Brotherhood without Banners?”

Stopping abruptly, Jason turned on his heel and looked quizzically at the Northerner. “How did you come to hear of it?” Gared started to speak, but Lord Mallister cut him off. “Never mind, I do not wish to know. They seem useful enough, willing to fight the lions where so many have been cowed. I welcome it, though I know not their true purpose.”

“I met a...bard by Sevenstreams, Very curious fellow, that.” Gared ran a hand through his hair as he said the words.

“Bards!” Jason laughed. “I’ve had more than my fill of that lot. We had several of them pass through here some days back; some fool captain was willing to ferry them wherever they wished. One was a girl, barely a woman grown. Prancing about half-naked and going on about the price of spice in Yi Ti!” He let out a chortle. “I’ve seen much in my years, but that was a first for me. Absolutely miserable lot. I wouldn’t be unhappy in the slightest if they landed ashore at Pyke; let the bloody reavers deal with that shit, I say.” He sighed heavily. “I do apologize, Gared - bit of a sore spot for me. In any event, you shall find the _Princess_ at the docks. Captain’s a trustworthy sort, he won’t ask questions of you. And there’s another matter I forgot to mention last night.” Benneth arrived, holding a parchment, and Jason gingerly took it from his hands and cut it open. “King Robb sent Lord Glover and Lady Mormont here before...well, before that all happened. He wished for me to…”

“Send them up the Neck,” Gared finished instinctively. “Lord Forrester was speaking with the men about before...yeah.” He could scarcely say the words.

Jason tilted his head at the squire. “Quite. It’s not as if such matters now, but if one could find them, then mayhaps the houses of the Riverlands can join their strength to the North’s and right this wrong. The Freys may have the support of the Iron Throne, but I’d like to see them stand against the united Kingdom of the North and Trident.”

_Do southerners truly hold to such loyalty all the same?_ “Should I find news of them, my lord, I’ll be riding in the vanguard when we raze the Twins.”

Lord Jason smiled, and then looked at the parchment and nodded. “Well, most interesting.” Looking to Gared, he said, “Sorry, most important matters to attend to,” and began speaking hurriedly with Benneth.

Jason took his leave of Gared and spoke quietly with the maester. _Where the bloody hell_ _did Sylvi run off to? She go looking for Mallister gold?_ He strolled through the hall and onto the battlements, the sun nearly blinding him; in the distance, the docks called out to him, and a medium-sized vessel sat at port while sailors were busy loading crates onto the deck. Gared started back inside, only to run straight into Ser Morgan.

“Out for a morning jaunt, are we?”

Gared so tired of the captain’s endless line of questioning. 

“Suppose it’s none of my business,” he said with a shrug. “Lord Mallister seems to think you can do no wrong, but mayhaps you’d care to keep a closer eye on your friends?”

_Seven bloody fucking hells._

“Why not come and see for yourself?”

The two walked down the steps and onto the muddy grass that surrounded Seagard. As Morgan led Gared to the beach below the lumbering towers, he could only imagine what mischief Sylvi had gotten herself into. He needed not wonder for long, as Morgan gestured to where a pair of guards stood at the hill of the beach, and on the shore below was Sylvi, dressed in her finest and looking out towards the water that crashed over the sand.

_Ah, Morgan. You must really have nothing better to do._ “Worried that she’ll steal the water?”

The captain rolled his eyes, but both he and Gared were both drawn back to Sylvi as she tore off her dress and boots, and walked towards the water, not a piece of clothing on her body. The guards stood mouths agape at her visage, and Gared nearly burst out laughing; his face was blushing near enough to be seen from miles away. Rushing down to the beach, he saw Sylvi unbraid her hair and walk calmly into the water. She had scars running every which way, from her back to her arms and legs, but as the sun reflected on her, he cared not about any of them.

She turned back at the sound of his footfalls and smiled with a mouth of crooked teeth. “See I’m gettin’ quite a crowd here.” As Gared stared at her body, she put her hands on her hips and laughed. “Eyes are up here, Lord Tuttle. The way you’re eyein’ me, it’s like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

Gared met her eyes. “You, uh, you…” he stammered and mumbled as he tried to focus. “Nice to see you’re, uh…”

“Shut yer bloody mouth and get in! Water’s great!” and she turned and dived belly first into the bay, ungracefully keeping herself afloat. Gared slowly walked to the shoreline, past her discarded clothing. “Well come on, then! You gonna keep me by my bloody lonesome?”

He finally found his words as he stumbled along the beach, his boots dragging water. “Not the least bit worried about all the eyes here?” he said as he gestured back towards the trio of guards, still unmoving and staring at her as she kicked about.

She blew a raspberry. “Bugger that lot! Now are you gonna fuckin’ keep talkin’ or you gonna get in?” Leaning back on her arms, she kicked at the rushing water with about as much grace as a fish, but she cared not, and happily giggled. “Don’t bloody tell me, Gared! Thought you was one of us now! Afraid of bein’ seen with a common girl?”

_Not quite._ “We’ve uh, we’ve got to go in a bit. Boat’s waiting.” He averted his eyes, as much to avoid the sun as to avoid her.

He heard footfalls in the bay rushing towards him and turned at the last second before water splashed all over him, seeping through his coat and into his skin. Sylvi stood laughing, and she hopped in place like a child. “There, now you’ve got no excuse.”

Bending over, he ran his hands through the water and cupped a handful, before rising and tossing the water in Sylvi’s face; she let out a scream, her hair soaked and sticking to her skin. Then, with a mischievous giggle, she threw still more water onto his clothes, and back and forth it went until Gared gave in and began undoing his coat. He was interrupted by the sound of a bell tolling. _Oh, fuck._

Sylvi stopped giggling and looked off towards the sound; Morgan and the other guards rushed back towards the castle, while in the distance, townsfolk were running wild throughout the streets. 

“The bloody hell is goin’ on…” she asked nervously.

Gared had never known bells to mean anything happy; he rushed back to the shore and grabbed Sylvi’s dress, shoving it into her arms as she followed behind. “Get the others and get to the boat. The _Sea Princess,_ out by the dock.” She started stammering out a question. “Now! Please!”

She nodded and began to dress. Gared sprinted back towards the castle, the water slowing his approach. As he ran through the hall, water leaving a trail behind him, he found Lord Mallister speaking hurriedly with Morgan; the lord had equipped a set of chainmail and had a sword attached to his hilt. 

“My lord, what is this?” asked Gared.

His eyes turned to meet the squire’s. “My men spotted a host of riders approaching, their banners bearing twin castles.”

Gared knew only one house with such a banner, one that he’d only wished to see at the end of swords. 

“We can withstand a siege, but I’m afraid it’s time for you to leave us before the Iron Throne can send their ships.”

“My lord!” barked Morgan. 

Jason followed Morgan onto the battlements, over a dozen armed and helmed soldiers striding behind him. Against his better judgment, Gared followed them as the wall circled around to the gatehouse guarding the entrance to Seagard. Archers weaved past him, and soldiers in full suits of silver armor made their way down to the streets, where a crowd of nobles, refugees, and smallfolk alike were so thick as to make one interconnected sea. Gared lost sight of his lordship as the battlements grew ever thicker with soldiers, but at last, the great eagled banner flying above the gatehouse was in his sight. Below, the portcullis was closed and a line of spear and shield-wielding soldiers stood behind it. As Gared called out for Lord Jason, a pair of soldiers blocked his path.

“Go on, boy! You’ve no need to be here!”

Gared screamed Lord Mallister’s name, and the lord did a double take as he saw Gared. 

“Let him pass!” he yelled to the soldiers, who did as they were ordered.

Running to meet Jason, Gared was stopped once again by Ser Morgan.

“I told you it was time to leave!” said Jason, exasperation in his voice. “There’s nothing you could possibly do here!” And he waved his hand towards the road below; it was as the lord said. There were enough horses and riders to make up the entirety of a smaller house’s forces and flying high above them was a sickeningly familiar sight - the castles of House Frey, blue over a field of white. The riders were all cloaked in the blue and silver colors of that house, and at the head was a long-haired man with a dark beard and a harsh, chinless face.

_“Archers!”_ shouted Morgan. “Nock your arrows!”

At his command, the archers all put quivers in their bows and aimed them downwards at the Frey host. Jason peered down on the advancing riders, saying nothing, but breathing short, shallow breaths. A cold silence hung over the morning air, as neither side was quick to make a move. Three riders at the front of the host rode forward, the bearded man waving towards the battlements.

“Lord Mallister!” he called out. “By the orders of Lord Walder of House Frey and King Joffrey of House Baratheon, you are to yield your castle and present yourself for surrender!” Gared had seen the man before, at the Twins. There were so many chinless weasels packed within the walls that most went by completely without notice. Black Walder was not so easily forgotten, his skill with a blade matched only by the ferocity of his temper.

Lord Jason looked down on the Frey envoys, his nostrils flaring and his brow scrunched. The two riders alongside Black Walder presented yet more familiar faces; one was quite memorable, young and sturdy but chinless and his face lined with freckles. Gared had last seen Ronel Rivers in the woods that night, fighting Lord Forrester. How he’d been so kind before driving his dagger through the hearts of the men he drank with. The other man was also young, his lips sporting a wide smirk and his cloak sporting the Vypren toad. 

“You not fuckin’ hearing me, my lord?” Black Walder yelled to the battlements. 

“Aye, I’ve fucking heard you, and I’m telling you to turn your fucking horses around and sod off back to the fucking Twins.” Lord Jason crossed his arms, his gaze never leaving Black Walder. “You knife us in the backs, butcher our kin, and think to give me orders? Your grandfather and your false king alike aren’t fit to order a servant to clean the bloody privy.”

Ronel and the Vypren boy both chuckled grimly at Jason’s words, but Black Walder’s frown never left his mouth. “Yes, we thought you might be too bloody stubborn to make this quick and painless.” He gestured to a rider behind him, who unhorsed and brought forth a man in chains, his long hair tangled, and his purple cloak torn to ribbons. His face had so many bruises that Gared couldn’t recognize him, but as Jason took sight of the boy, he nearly dropped to his knees.

_“Patrek…”_ he whispered. 

For the first time that morn, Black Walder smiled. “Not to worry, Patrek’s been made most at home in our care, though I fear the Twins are not as kind to the boy as your castle.”

Jason leaned over the battlements and screamed, “You fucking craven bastards! Let him go!”

Black Walder shook his head and then pointed to the woods. “See that tree over there? I’m gonna hang your son from it until he stops kicking around. And you’ll be witness to every last second of it, unless you open the gates and surrender.”

The Lord of Seagard turned away, his body shaking from head to foot. In the space of a few moments, the Freys had reduced yet another great man to a puddle. _Always in the back with you lot._

Looking down at the Frey host, Gared saw Black Walder become irritated and snap his fingers. “Clearly, I’m not getting across to his lordship here. Damon,” he turned to the Vypren boy. “Kindly demonstrate for Lord Mallister why it would be most wise for him to throw away his stubborn pride.”

Damon Vypren jumped off his horse and grabbed Patrek, taking a long strand of rope from one of the riders. As he led the beaten and bruised Patrek towards a tall tree, Gared and Jason both could only stare in horror.

“Keep watching, my lord! When the life’s just about to run from him, I’ll cut him loose...and then I’ll tie an even shorter rope around his neck and keep going until the blood’s completely gone from his face. I wonder if you’ll even recognize him after!” Black Walder cast a smug grin towards Jason, who slowly backed away. “Well? I don’t have all bloody day here!”

“Wait! Just fucking wait!” screamed Jason as Damon prepared to tie the rope around Patrek’s neck.

Black Walder put his hand up, his grin fading. “You’ll yield then? Doesn’t matter to me, really. Either you yield now, or I string up Patrek here and then march in and put you and everyone else in this fucking castle to the sword!”

Jason backed away and turned to Gared. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

“I understand, my lord,” said Gared. Mayhaps he wished to stay and fight to the bitter end, but he couldn’t fault the lord in the slightest for what he was about to do.

“Go and get to the boat. You won’t have much time.” His words were quick and terse, the pleas of a man at the end of his own rope.

“I’m fuckin’ _waiting,_ my lord!” came the voice of Black Walder. “Care to come and see what happens to Patrek if you wait another fucking second?” 

“Go,” said Jason to Gared, and Gared ran, ran down the battlements past the waves of guards as he heard Jason give the order to open the gates.

The crowd below would soon give way to a stream of cravens cloaked in blue and silver; Gared thought he saw Karl’s scarred face among them, but paid it little mind. He sprinted away from the battlements and the castle, towards the docks and the _Sea Princess_ as its crew untethered the ropes. He jumped on as the vessel rocked under the might of the waves, nearly running over the captain in his haste.

“Is your boat ready?” asked Gared.

The captain looked nervously about towards the town. “Yes, what is…”

“Then let’s go. Right now.” Inside, the words were bloody screams, but when they came out of Gared’s mouth, they were just above whispers.

The captain of the boat turned and gave orders to his men, and within minutes, the _Sea Princess_ cast out of the harbor and into Ironman’s Bay. Sylvi, Owyn, and Finn ran from under the deck, Sylvi now dressed but still drenched in water.

“Gared, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?” she asked hurriedly.

He sighed, looking towards Seagard. _Meaning what?_ “We’ll be safe at the least.”

Standing out on the deck, he saw the town of Seagard slowly fade away, the throngs of people no more than specks on the horizon. She stood next to him, sharing the view.

“I...I never wanted to leave.”

Home for Sylvi was not to be found in Seagard. It wasn’t to be found there for any of them. As the boat drifted off west around the Cape of Eagles, Gared could do naught but sit and wonder when he could ever stop running. Sylvi sat beside him, and the two shared a smile as the waves rushed up the side of the vessel.

  


\---

  


“My lord, I’ve looked into this matter of the ironwood conflict, and it’s as you thought. The Forresters and Whitehills have about as much love for one another as a whore does a suckling leech. They’ve fought for so long that I question if any could truly tell you the original reason as to why. I’ve scoured what text on Northern history I could find, and it seems as though the troubles started brewing well before the Andals invaded the realm. It’s been said throughout the North that if you want a quick stay at a brothel, go to House Whitehill, but if it’s a long, fruitful marriage you’re after, then the craftsmanship of House Forrester is second to none. It seems the Starks have long tired of the two clans’ constant feuding, if Lord Alaric’s words are true. Nor was he the first Lord of Winterfell to have to intercede in this feud.

The Whitehills have long been split in their alliances between the Boltons and the Manderlys; let me just say that when they try to grasp for White Harbor’s favor, that’s generally as peaceful as it gets in the Wolfswood. The current Lord of Highpoint, however, is most clear in his loyalty to his liege lords. From what correspondence our spies have intercepted, Ludd Whitehill was all too eager to join in the slaughter at the Twins. More curious, however, is the pillaging his men partake in at villages throughout the Wolfswood. The women are either nowhere to be found or lying dead, and the conclusions to be made from this point are quite grim indeed. I shall investigate this matter further, though I imagine your position will allow you more insight.

I apologize for our difficult time in the North; your man there seems to have turned his cloak completely, but to who’s side? As for the situation in King’s Landing, fear not, for none are aware of what’s to transpire. I imagine I’ll soon find myself in a wonderful position to ensure all goes smoothly. And, I’m deeply sorry about Lady Catelyn. I know how you felt about her. I shan’t shed any tears over what’s about to happen to that little bastard.

Let the old way crumble into the sea.”

Signed, 

R.

  


\--Letter sent from King’s Landing to the Eyrie, found by Maester Colemon, 300 AC

  


\---

  


“Had a most curious day. While I was at the harbor, I ran into a woman who claimed she had a proposition for me that would make all gold dragons as worthwhile as an empty bottle of wine. I thought mayhaps this was some code for a night at a pillow house, but if she were a whore, then she was quite well read. Didn’t sound like she was from Braavos, either; it’s truly a very small world we inhabit when I can so easily run into runaways from the Seven Kingdoms. 

She wasn’t quite clear on the details of the job, only that it would make any willing participant very rich and very powerful. Who does she know who wields such power? Admittedly, I’m not quite comfortable with someone who already seems to know enough about me to seek me out, nor can I turn away what promises to be a very nice score if it all checks out. I shall inquire some more, and mayhaps this will finally be the break I’ve long needed.

Will this finally convince the Belmores that I’m worthy? I’ve so labored to get away from under my family, and yet those fucking castles seem to shadow me like a stalking servant. How I miss that laughter...if this job is indeed on the level, then I’ll do what I must to make that coin.”

\--Diary of Bryden Frey, late 299 AC


	9. A Fleeting Solace (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironrath is faced with both the departures of loyal members and the arrival of hostile Whitehill forces, and Lord Ethan seeks to give them a most cold reception.

It was a cold yet clear day in Ironrath. As birds chirped in the Wolfswood and Ser Royland began training his men in the courtyard, Elissa and Alanna were sharing a few sweet words with Josera and Elsera in the small grove that sat behind the castle. Their horses were packed and ready, and it would mayhaps be the last time for a while that they saw each other, for it would be a rough ride into the mountains.

“You’ll have enough food to last up there?” asked Elissa.

“We’ll be fine, my lady. It’s nothing we haven’t done before,” said Elsera with a smile.

Elissa studied the horses; they were sturdy mounts, white and dark gray, and their breath became cold steam as it left their nostrils. “Gods, I hope they won’t freeze to death up there. And who knows what beasts lurk in the mountains?” In truth, the wildlife there was fairly commonplace to a Northerner, but Elissa knew that owls and goats could easily give way to tigers and bears.

Josera put his hands over Elissa’s. “My lady, you truly have no need to fear for us.” His breath clouded his sharp blue eyes. “I’ve been into the mountains near enough to lose track. Seven hells, I could most likely get there in my sleep!” 

She looked at Josie’s thigh; a tourniquet was still wrapped around it from where the dagger took him, but Josie showed only a slight lumber when he walked. 

“That bastard sliced me good,” he said in a low, menacing tone. “But he completely missed the arteries. A couple inches to the left and…”

A vengeful look came over his sister. “I run into him, or any wearing the Whitehill colors, and they’ll wish their hands were steadier.” 

“Does it hurt at all?” asked Elissa, and immediately thought it a stupid question.  _ How else would a knife wound feel?  _ “I mean, does it still grieve you?”

“I’ll be fine, my lady. Any chance of infection is gone, and the maester tells me that as long as nothing further irritates it, then there’s no need to worry. Hopefully we don’t run into man-eating bears or tigers in the woods,” he said the last sentence rather nervously.

“And Bhaenya will be with us; a bear would be a good fight indeed for her,” said Elsie.

“A shadowcat against a bear? I’d quite love to see the sight of that!” Talia was walking towards them, along with Ethan and Ryon. She wore the necklace that Gregor had given her long past, a memento to the great women of House Forrester. Her brother, the new Lord of Ironrath, was dressed in a fine green and brown jerkin with a sword attached to his hilt. He looked as if he’d gotten no sleep at all in the past several moons.

Elsie ruffled Talia’s hair. “Aye, it would be quite a feast. Though hopefully it won’t come to that. Bhaenya is too great a beast to see thrown into a needless scrap.”

Alanna cleared her throat. “Listen, this mayhaps is just a midwife’s tale, but you’ve heard of the North Grove?”

_ Gods, Gregor always went on about that. Some things about this land I’ll still never understand. _

Josie scoffed at the captain’s words, only for his sister to elbow him in the stomach. “Course we have. Who hasn’t?” She rolled her eyes. “But luck be to us to find that bloody grove up there. The mountains don’t quite invite you to stay and touch.”

“My family used to talk about it, but none were ever brave enough to go and search for it,” said Alanna. “And now that…” She looked away suddenly, and Elissa hugged her tightly. The poor girl had lost so much at the Twins. 

Talia got a wild look in her eyes; Elissa knew it well. “Grandmother said you can’t find it. It has to find you. Auntie Alexia said her grandfather always told them stories about it.”

“And what the bloody hell does that mean?” asked Ethan as he crossed his arms. “It has to find you? Is it a grove or a bloody wife?”

Ryon snorted at his brother’s jape. “Heard you bathe in the waters and you turn young again.”

“And I heard you have to commune with the spirits of the Kings of Winter. It sounds like complete horseshit!” snarked Josie. 

Elsie shot him a dirty glance. “Where’s your respect for nature, Josie? Why must you always mock it so? What if we can’t find the fucking grove because you have so little faith?”

“I wasn’t mocking, I was just…” He stopped at the sight of his sister’s cold expression. “Look, what’s going to keep us alive in those mountains is our wits, not some magical fucking grove where children of the forest frolic and silver-haired maidens dance for our pleasure!”

_ And if you two keep fighting, you won’t make it off that mountain alive.  _ “Gregor thought that mayhaps our house’s old sword was up there. He so wanted to retrieve it, but never found the time. He wished to go before this wretched war broke out.” Her eyes drifted downward, and she felt the hot sting of water boiling behind them. 

Elsera hugged Elissa, her warmth great solace in the bitter cold. “We’ll find it. I promise, my lady.”

“You...you two may not be my blood, but you will always be welcome here,” said Elissa, her hand feeling the warm fur of Elsie’s coat. 

It had been quite a surprise when Gregor brought the twins home not long after their marriage; that had been around the time that Rodrik was born, and Elissa felt blessed that her son would not have to be alone with no other children around him. Gregor had assured her that his dalliances with their mother were no more than a brief fling, and that he would never dishonor his wife. She believed him, believed every word he said of it, and when he invited the woman they called Danya of the Wolfswood to be a guest in Ironrath, Elissa welcomed her, and the two mothers would always treat all of the Forrester children as their own.  _ Family names need not matter here. You all have the North in you.  _ Elissa felt as responsible for them as she did her own children, and she felt the same for Gared and little Jenna, though she found it quite amusing that Saemas had wished to arrange betrothals between their families. 

Josie gave her a hug and said, “Grove or no, we’ll return with more than what we left with.”

The twins gave hugs to the children and to Alanna, and then mounted their horses. Elsie was dressed warmly enough in her green tunic and wool furs, but her feet were almost entirely bare but for a strap that ran along her heel and connected to her breeches.

“Elsie? You realize it’s quite cold in the mountains?” Elissa murmured, forcing back a smile. “The feeling of snow against bare skin is, well, it’s not so pleasurable.”

Josie laughed, cold breath thick in the wind. “Sorry, my lady, but this is a fight you won’t win.”

“What did I tell you about Josie’s disrespect for nature, my lady?” asked Elissa, a sheepish grin on her lips. “I wouldn’t have it any other way than this.”

Talia rushed over to Elsie and tore off her locket. “Before you go, Elsie...please, take this.”

The huntress looked bemused as Talia extended the locket to her. “Are you sure? I thought you could as soon part with that as Josie could with his stubbornness.” Josie rolled his eyes at that.

“Please. It’s always brought me luck,” begged Talia. 

“It’s only fitting that a great woman of House Forrester take it in her journeys,” said Elissa. 

Elsie blushed; she tried to speak, but could get no words out. Gingerly, she took the medallion from Talia’s hand, the girl smiling as she did.

“Thank you, Talia.”

“Just be safe,” was Talia’s reply.

Elsera nodded before clasping the locket around her neck. She looked at Josie, a nod his answer. And with one final wave, the twins rode through the gates of Ironrath and out into the cold morning of the Wolfswood.

Ethan rubbed his eyes and yawned. “When are the Whitehills due here?”

“Not long, I feel,” replied Alanna with a snort. “No doubt Lord Lardarse has sent word to the Boltons demanding permission to march here and take vengeance.”

“How Roose Bolton plans on slipping by Moat Cailin with the Ironborn still camped there…” Elissa trailed off.  _ If the Gods are good, they’ll find the Leech Lord and flay him alive.  _ She only wished to hear the sounds of his screaming, him and his bastard son both.

“We’ll be ready, my lady. If Ludd Whitehill wishes for a battle, my men will see to it that it’s his last.” Alanna’s eyes were cold as they stared off towards the Wolfswood, and her face looked like pure marble, high cheekbones cutting across a pale, freckled face.

“Fiona wishes her father would lend us aid,” said Talia. “But she says he won’t take sides right now.”

Ethan scoffed. “If he hopes to sit behind the walls of Rillwater Crossing until the Wall melts, I believe our new overlords have different ideas. He chooses now of all times to preach caution?”

Elissa had known Lord Benjen for many years, and he was indeed a slow, indecisive man, long on thoughts but slow on the draw. His son, Daemon, was a far different sort, however; always quick to anger and eager for a fight, but on who’s side?

Excitedly, Ryon turned and yelled, “Uncle Malcolm!” and ran into Malcolm’s arms as he approached, nearly causing him to drop his bag. 

Malcolm spun Ryon around and patted him on the head, before giving hugs to Ethan and Talia. 

“Promise me you’ll find him, Uncle!” Talia begged. “I miss him so much.”

Smiling, Malcolm ruffled Talia’s long, strawberry blonde hair and said, “Not to worry, lass. If I have to travel to Asshai, I’ll find your brother. You have my word on that.”

Elissa wrapped her arms tightly around Malcolm, a tear running down her face. “I can’t lose you, too. Not after everything we’ve been through. I can’t.” She still vividly recalled the day news had travelled north of the Mad King burning her parents alive.  _ Loyal to the dragons all those years, but none were ever good enough for him.  _ Malcolm could’ve chosen to assert his lordship of Brierglen to the new king, but he was never groomed for the role, nor did he treasure it, and so it was that the great seat of House Branfield passed to some undeserving knight whom Aerys found more loyal. And before the dust even had a moment to clear, their great castle burnt to the ground, the rebels caring not for her brothers’ children trapped inside.  _ Bloody Syan Curran, the Slayer of the Mander. _ They were yet more names she wished to cross out forever.

Softly running his hand through her hair, he whispered, “The North may still be so queer to me, but Asher has our blood running through him all the same. I won’t let another one of us fall.”

She wanted to burst into tears. Her parents burned alive, Bryce and Rewan cut down in battle, and her sister…“The last Branfields. How did it come to this, Malcolm?”

“Are we truly? Rhaella…”

“No! Don’t speak of her!” She’d rather have seen her sister killed quickly; it would have been far more merciful than what those bastards had done to her. “I...please, I just can’t think of her any longer.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I know, it’ll never go away. We just have to have hope that miracles can happen.”

_ No miracles were to be found at the Twins. Not for those with any shame. _

“And now I must take my leave of you.” He looked off towards the rising sun. “My ship’ll be leaving White Harbor soon, I fear. Hopefully the waters are calm.”

“Uncle!” shouted Ethan, causing all to turn to him. His face, weary and heavy, focused on Malcolm like a hawk. “Find my brother. But don’t die so far from the North.”

Malcolm blushed at the comment, and then bowed. “I will, my lord.” With one last goodbye for the children, he then climbed onto a horse that was led from the stables and galloped towards the gates.

“Malcom!” Elissa called to him, and he stopped abruptly and turned. “Do not go gently!”

“Do not go gently!” he repeated, and with that, he galloped through the gates and down the road ahead, disappearing behind the veil of ironwood trees.

She turned back to her children, and saw Duncan Tuttle walking up to them, his beard growing and shaggy, his brown hair tangled to pieces.

“My lord,” he said after clearing his throat. “You’re needed in the great hall at once.”

Ethan turned back to Elissa, his eyes red and shot to seven hells, before resting his gaze on Duncan. “Surely they haven’t arrived yet!”

Duncan shook his head. “No, my lord. But I’m afraid we have little time to dwell on it. Please, if you will,” and he bowed, beckoning towards the castle.

Ethan, Talia, and Ryon followed behind Duncan while Elissa paced behind, Alanna next to her.

“Your son is proving himself quite nicely. My men are all ready to stand behind him. Gods only know they seek vengeance for the Red Wedding as much as we,” she said. “But this’ll be the real challenge, how he treats with the Whitehills.”

Elissa flicked back a braid of strawberry blonde hair. “If Ludd Whitehill tries anything in there…”

“Not to worry, my lady,” she said with a warm smile. “No harm shall come to Ethan, nor any in Ironrath. But surely he’s not fool enough to do battle now?”

“I didn’t think he’d be bold enough to turn on his countrymen and slaughter them like a flock of sheep, but it seems I was sorely mistaken.” Elissa’s fists clenched at the thought of seeing the turncloak in their hall. “Who knows what he plans? And if he feels the Boltons will back him in this, he’ll grow very brave indeed. He’ll just wait until your back is turned to drive the knife through it.”

They stopped by the steps leading up to the keep. Alanna turned towards the sky and scratched the back of her head for a longing moment. 

“I know we haven’t had much time to speak on it, but...how are you holding up?” _Fool question. How would I expect her to answer?_ _  
_ Alanna turned back to Elissa, her dark eyes large and with red veins popping every which way. “I just can’t quite believe they’re gone. Jace and Bran were inseparable; they fought together, drank together, and now they’ve fallen together. As for my mother, I’ve heard nothing of her, but it’s not like those bastards had the mercy to spare an unarmed woman from a knife to the throat.” She turned away, her eyes closed tightly, and Elissa wished she had not asked.

Elissa put her hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Alanna, if you need to return home…”

“No,” her reply was sharp. “I couldn’t leave you all here. Besides, Yasmine has locked herself behind the castle walls with her guards and assures me they’ll withstand a siege. Only until I hear word of my mother will I think to go back, and only then to bring all the men I can gather so we can march on the traitors and burn them in their fucking homes.” Her teeth were clenched, and her eyes stared through Elissa, tears flowing freely from them down her reddening face. Her hand clasped at the sword in her hilt, causing Elissa to put her hands around the girl’ s.

“Soon, my lady,” said Elissa coldly. “Soon, our time will come to put them to the sword. If I have to put on chainmail and run screaming into battle, so be it.”

Those words brought a smile to Alanna’s face. “I’d like to see that, my lady.”

Elissa wiped the tears from her face, and beckoned Alanna through the back doors of the castle and into the great hall. Ethan had climbed into the great ironwood throne that bore the bow of Forenna of the Gift, while Talia and Ryon sat to the left him on the dais; Maester Ortengryn, sitting on Ethan’s right, folded his robed his hands over the table. Waiting by the hearth with Duncan was Ser Royland and another man in padded brown and yellow armor, a double of crossed axes sat against a yellow field. His face was dripping with sweat and mixed in with the Ironrath guards were several fully armored men wearing the same sigil.

“Lady Forrester.” Royland bowed.

Elissa looked closely at the man by the hearth, his face familiar to her. “You...I know you. You’re Lord Glendon’s son.”

“Indeed, my lady,” and he bowed. “Lord Lucas Brownbarrow.”

Lord Glendon had been among those captured at the Green Fork and given over to the Mountain that Rides at Harrenhal. It would truly have been better to have died on the battlefield. 

“Lord Lucas has something quite interesting to share with us, my lady,” said Duncan.

Elissa nodded and climbed up the dais, standing by Ethan’s side as he looked over his hall. Alanna stood to his right, her hand on her sword, as Duncan and Royland flanked Lucas on the floor below, the hearth crackling behind them.

“Lord Brownbarrow,” Ethan’s voice was raised for all to hear. It was still soft and sweet, and yet he made sure all heard of him. “Please, tell us what you witnessed.”

Lucas Brownbarrow nodded, and both lords locked eyes. “My lord, my men in the Wolfswood tell me that another village was raided to the north along the Kingsroad. The raiders were wearing the blue cloak and white hill of the men from Highpoint.”

“Seven bloody hells, another one?” snapped Alanna. “Do those bastards wish to provoke us?”

Elissa’s heart raced at the words; to think that Northmen were not only murdering their allies but pillaging their lands was enough to make her legs weak.

“I’m afraid that’s not all. This news is...quite disturbing, to say the least…” Lucas began.

The Lady of Ironrath looked down at the Lord of Brownbarrow. “Please, continue, my lord.”

Lucas sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “The Forrester soldiers protecting the village were all slaughtered before they could draw steel, and the men were put to the sword. Homes were looted and burned, livestock slaughtered, and the women who were not murdered were...they were…”

Ethan looked at Lucas apprehensively, his eyes glaring from under his brow, dark bangs falling all around his ears.

“They were taken, my lord. Taken screaming bloody murder.”

The words sent Ethan back into his chair, while Talia and Ryon looked aghast.  _ Haven’t I heard this before?  _ She thought back to her meeting with Jordyn Ryswell, and his words about the women being either dead or gone. Now it was beginning to become clear what was happening.

“You’re completely sure of this?” asked Royland. “Why...why would the Whitehills have need to carry off the women? It’s not as if they could bloody ransom them!”

Alanna stared at Elissa, and in a hushed tone, said, “Who said anything about ransom?”

Lucas’ eyes flickered across those gathered in front of him, and he shook all over. “My men tell it true; they were taken, bound and gagged, thrown in the backs of carts while a small detachment was left behind to sweep up anything they missed. I do not wish for such to be true, and I have no explanation for why this is.”

“The Whitehills are not Ironborn,” _Though little difference is beginning to show between them._ “Do they really mean to take salt wives?” asked Elissa in disbelief.   
Ethan exchanged glances, first with his mother, then with his siblings and Maester Ortengryn, and finally with Lord Lucas. “The crown may have placed the Boltons as Wardens of the North, but this is Glover land, and with Deepwood Motte fallen, the smallfolk have few to turn to.” He stood up, looking down at Lucas. “But I will not sit idly by while those bastards ravage my land and rape my people. Lord Brownbarrow,” Lucas stood still. “How many men can you muster?”

Sighing, Lucas rubbed the back of his head. “Not as many as I wish, my lord. So many were butchered at the Twins, and more still were lost in the Riverlands, or deserted after my father was captured. I’d say I have less than two hundred men to spare at this point, and most are protecting Brownbarrow.”

“I don’t need two hundred men for this,” said Ethan, his voice echoing around the hall. “If

I were to give you twenty-five, could you match that number?”

Lucas’ eyes went bright. “Of course, my lord.”

“Then it shall be done,” and Ethan sat back down. “Lord Brownbarrow, I give you my

leave and my men. The Wolfswood is not for the Whitehills or the Ironborn or anyone else to rape and despoil. If you chance upon roving bands sacking the villages, do whatever you must to keep the smallfolk safe.” Murmurs arose from the guards and servants gathered.

Maester Ortengryn, quiet thus far, finally found his voice. “My lord, is attacking the Whitehills really so wise? Lord Bolton…”

“If Lord Bolton cares not for the people under him, then he is no lord at all. And neither 

am I if I sit here idly.” Elissa beamed at her son; all in the hall did so except the maester, and young Talia’s was brightest of them all. She looked as if she could jump up and throw her arms around her brother at once. “Maester, send a raven to Pine Glades at once; I wish for House Elliver to stand with us in this. Alanna,” he turned to his right. “Could your house spare any?”

Alanna blushed, and nearly choked back her words. “I...I mean, of course, my lord. My sister could spare a dozen men if you need.”

The Lord of Ironrath nodded. “Indeed, that will suffice, my lady,” and he turned back to 

Ortengryn. “Send a raven to Crescent Falls, as well.”

The maester looked ready to protest, but Ethan’s glare cut into him like a cold dagger. “Yes, my lord. At once,” and he departed from the dais and the great hall.

“I shall go as well, Lord Forrester,” said Lucas. “If it pleases.”

Ethan rose once more. “Make great haste, my lord. Let all in the Wolfswood know that 

they need not fear murderers and rapers sacking their homes and making off with their wives and children. House Forrester shall forever stand behind them.”

The Lord of Brownbarrow bowed and strode off, his guards following closely behind. 

“Very good, my lord,” said Royland with a nod of his head. “Your father would’ve been proud.”

“He always did right by the smallfolk. I have much to owe him for that,” Duncan added.

Elissa knew that regardless of the sincerity of their words, they were most certainly vying for the position of Sentinel. Thermund had loyally served Gregor for years and was an able wartime advisor, but the likelihood of him walking through the gates with a smile and a maiden on his arm was as likely as her getting a dragon.

Her son seemed to hear the words absently, instead keeping his eyes on the guard captain to his right. 

“Our words mean nothing without actions to see them through,” she finally said. “We must protect those in our hold, but there are other matters to consider.” The tall Northwoman moved in front of the throne, looking down at Ethan, who eagerly looked up to hear her words. “My men are growing restless; food is running low, and this thrice-damned war has drained so much of the treasury. I fear a few bold enough could desert in the dead of night.”

The master-at-arms scoffed behind her. “These men are loyal; they’ll not abandon us so easily.”

Alanna turned quickly to face Royland. “Loyal men, aye. But there’s a surplus of fresh faces, and I’ve had little time to see to all of them. I worry not about the loyalties of the veterans, but I’ve little knowledge if the new recruits will not up and leave and the first chance, particularly with empty bellies and dwindling purses.” Turning back to Ethan, she took a knee. “My lord, I am ever your loyal servant. Never doubt that. But we can ill afford to put this off any longer.”

Ethan looked at her intently, a curious look crossing his face. “You speak truly, my lady.”

Duncan cleared his throat. “My lord, if I may, your father made mention of rationing our stores among the smallfolk if it ever came to this. It’s by no means perfect, but winter will be on us soon, and I fear without support from the Starks or Glovers, we’ll have few good options.”

The young lord looked to Duncan, nodding, before turning his gaze back to Alanna. “If I were to do the same for your men, would that placate them?”

“I fear nothing will truly placate them but a grand feast, but they’ve been through lean times in the past, and they can make do,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “Though some, I fear, will be a lost cause.”

“We can have Lucas’ men forage and supply us and take from those Whitehill bastards what they’ve stolen and return it to the people.” Royland paced about the carpet, his legs ever on the move but his eyes never leaving his lord. “They wish to break us, they’ll find our legs do not bend so easily.”

Ethan rose and turned his back to the court, looking out the window and into the ironwood valley below. “I am willing to do whatever necessary to keep the peace between us. We can’t well be fighting amongst ourselves while the enemy is out there marshaling their forces.”

Elissa put his arm on his shoulder. “Whatever you decide, my lord, Ironrath stands behind you.” She turned to Royland. “Your opinion on their ability to fight?”

“My lady, they wouldn’t have it any other way. Any man I train ought to be ready to tear open a bear’s throat with their teeth if need be.”

“And they’ll happily make do with a Whitehill or Bolton at the moment,” Alanna said glibly. “Long as their bellies are full, they’ll be ready to march on Highpoint and raze that fucking monstrosity.”

“Full bellies?” Royland crossed his arms. “When I was fightin’ the Ironborn, you think our bellies were always fat?”

“I don’t think any here desire to hear more of your stories fighting the Ironborn, Ser Royland,” said Duncan as he turned away. “You go on about them all bloody day.”

“It’s what’s going to keep us alive! The men need someone who’s been through it all before to show them the way to victory!”

_ That certainly wasn’t an attempt at a question that’s not yet been asked.  _

“Easy, both of you.” Ethan turned around to face his court, and strode towards his throne, looking down at the two men below. “Long on stories as Ser Royland may be, Duncan, they all ring true.” Royland smirked at the castellan, who simply shook his head. “Tell your men those stories, ser. They need to hear about war, of all it means. Not just from songs. And Duncan?” The castellan immediately looked up at Ethan. “My father always said he had no better castellan than yourself. And I wish for you to get to work immediately on rationing. I have not forgotten his promise to you, either.” Duncan beamed, and then took a knee. Royland in turn rolled his eyes and stood sullenly with his arms still crossed.

Gregor’s promise to raise the Tuttles was certainly an interesting one. King Robb may have gone for it, but neither Roose Bolton nor Joffrey were as likely to raise pig farmers as Walder Frey was to go celibate.

“If it pleases you, my lord, I’d like to talk with my men,” said Alanna. “We shan’t be fighting like fucking southerners when the Whitehills show.”  
“How long, do you feel?” he asked.

“I doubt much longer. I’m only surprised Lord Lardarse hasn’t shown already.”

Ethan nodded, and the guard captain promptly bowed and took her leave. Duncan and Royland were granted leave as well, leaving the Forresters alone in the hall save for a small patrol of guards.

“You know exactly what those two are doing, Ethan.” Talia had gotten up and joined her brother as he went back to the window. 

The Lord of Ironrath grimly stared out the window. “Indeed, I do. But one of them must be chosen, regardless of how I feel on the matter.”

Talia’s face lit up; Elissa knew that look all too well. “Who says it has to be one of them?”

Ethan turned to his sister, curious for a moment, and then a look dawned on him. The two had come out of the womb together, and they seemed to not even need words to communicate half the time.

Elissa looked out into the valley below them; a mist had fallen over the trees, and all was still for miles to see. “I remember when you all would play out there for hours. Thought you’d get lost. You and Rodrik and Asher…”

“And where was I, mother?” Ryon’s high-pitched voice broke.

“You weren’t born yet!” Ethan said as he turned to his younger brother. Elissa and Talia laughed aloud at his words. 

“We had a river by our castle. Not quite the same, but me and my brothers and sister would spend all day out there.” Elissa thought back to when she was younger. Bryce and Rewan were always sparring, trying to get Elissa to join in with them. Malcolm would spend his time reading by the flowing water, and Rhaella dreamed of knighthood.  _ It was so perfect. But it was all dashed like a storm blotting out the sun.  _

“Mother?” asked Ethan somberly. “Do you ever wish to...to go back to that?”

She closed her eyes. “It’s a pretty thought. But that’s no longer home for me.”  _ Tywin Lannister’s bloody butchers made sure of that.  _ “Mayhaps someday we can right that injustice, but that day is still far.”

Talia wrapped her hands around her mother’s waist, and whispered, “I’d love to see it.”

Elissa ran her hand through Talia’s hair.  _ Some day, sweet thing. _

She heard a loud series of footfalls echo through the hall and turned to find Alanna leading Duncan, Royland, and a group of green-cloaked soldiers towards the dais. “Sorry, my lord, but the Whitehills are here, and they look about ready to break down the gates if not allowed entry.”

Ethan silently looked over the men she had gathered; they were all armored in cloth and wore helms, while their hands held spears and shields. Ryon shrank into his seat while Talia leaned over him, her arms wrapped around his body. The young lord looked at Elissa, who nodded to him.  _ May the Old Gods and new guide you, my son. _

“Let them through,” Ethan ordered Alanna. “Only Lord Whitehill and his personal guard are allowed in the hall; the rest can freeze in the Wolfswood.”

Alanna gave a half-grin and nodded. “Right away, my lord,” and she turned to one of her men, giving him a nod, and he ran from the hall.

Ethan took his place on the ironwood throne, Talia and Ryon back at the dais and Elissa sitting to his left. Duncan and Royland stood on opposite sides below the throne, while Alanna climbed up next to Ethan, her sword hand at the ready. Maester Ortengryn lumbered into the hall, his chains clinking as he walked towards the dais.

“My lord, should we prepare bread and salt for his lordship?” he asked, leaning over.

Royland glared at the maester, sporting an annoyed grimace. “You a fuckin’ mummer or something, Ortengryn? You think he deserves any fuckin’ courtesy?”

“It would help if…”

“No,” Ethan’s voice rose above the rest. “I’ll show Lord Whitehill the same respect his kin showed for those they broke bread with at the Twins,” and he pulled the sword from his hilt and laid it across his lap, both hands firmly placed over the blade.

Elissa’s eyes met Alanna’s; the two women shared a grim nod at that. Ortengryn sighed and stepped onto the dais, next to Ethan as he turned to face the hall. The guards lined up on the sides, spears and shields at the ready. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Ethan said with a sigh and a wave of his hand.

Royland cleared his throat. “Bring them in!” he yelled to the guards by the doors. 

The doors opened and dull sunlight streamed inside. Men-at-arms poured into the hall, cloaked in blue and white, and carrying spears and swords of their own. Towering above them was a man in ornate blue and white cloth armor, the hill and stars emblazoned across his surcoat. The ground seemed to rumble as he walked through the hall. 

Duncan and Royland both stood below, their hands on their hilts as they faced the Whitehill men, who came to a stop just before the length of green and brown carpet ended before the dais. The men-at-arms stood aside as their lumbering lord strode to the throne.

“Lord Ethan, I presume?” Ludd Whitehill was a large man in both height and girth; he was fit enough to ride a horse, but never into battle. He easily towered over all present in the hall, curly blonde hair hanging limply over his scalp, and a clean-shaven face blotched with red spots. He glanced about the dais at those gathered, until his eyes rested on Elissa. “Lady Forrester! It’s been far too long!” 

She wanted to slide down in her seat as her eyes met his, and her skin began to crawl in a mad haste to jump from her bones. She wished to take the knife in front of her and carve his face with it, but she only said, “Lord Whitehill,” as curtly as possible.

He turned towards the Forrester children, who both glared at him from under their crunched brows. “Talia and Ryon, is it? It’s always nice to have the entire family around, though it seems...not all are present.” Looking towards the great Forrester painting that hung by the fireplace, his voice trailed off.  _ Bloody bastard.  _ He turned back to Ethan and extended a hand. “My condolences for your father and brother, my lord. Gregor was no friend of mine, but I feel his loss all the same.”

Ethan pensively looked at Ludd’s hand, his eyes flicking to the Lord of Highpoint’s face. Standing up, he sheathed his sword and slowly reached out his hand, only for Ludd to pull him in closely and grip Ethan’s hand with all his might.

“I only wished I could have been there to drive the dagger through his heart myself,” he said, his voice low and full of menace. 

As Elissa’s heart raced, Duncan and Royland unsheathed their swords, prepared to cut Ludd down in an instant. 

“No need for that, boys.” A freckled Whitehill man without a helm and wearing a star-lit moon on his cloak stepped forward. “There’s no need to shed any blood here.”

Ludd released his grip on Ethan and turned back to face the man. “Shed blood? What harm is there in that? They haven’t even given us fucking bread and salt! What kind of fucking house receives a lord with no bloody bread and salt?” He turned back to Ethan, his face twisted into a snarl.

“Watch your tongue, my lord!” Alanna barked. “You may treat each other like pigs in shit at Highpoint, but you’ll address my lord with respect while you stand there.”

Lord Whitehill laughed even as his face turned even redder. “So, does Lord Forrester here let his women do all the fighting for him? This house has sure turned to shit, if such were even possible.” Chuckles rose from the men behind him.

Ethan, now seated back on the throne with the sword returned over his lap, said, “Clearly, it’s because she wasn’t raised in a barn, Lord Whitehill.”

The smile on Ludd’s face died, and his white skin turned completely pink. “You little shit! How dare you fucking speak to me that way! It’s not us who allow pig farmers to run their fucking keep!” He motioned to Duncan, who quietly seethed. 

“Have you come all this way to tell us how to rule, my lord?” asked Elissa. “If so, it seems you’ve wasted your time, for we have no wish to hear the lectures of traitors and oathbreakers.”

The court fell silent as Elissa and Ludd glared at one another. 

“Traitors, you say?” He began pacing about the carpet. “Twas not us who stood by Robb Stark to the end as he committed treasons and murdered men loyal to the crown, was it?” Elissa wished to smack Ludd across his bloated face; he had committed men to Robb all the same, and yet he dared to speak as if he was loyal to Joffrey the entire time. “You Forresters have shit on us for Seven only know how many generations, prancing about because the Starks were always there to have your backs. Well, look who’s no longer around! We’re the power in the North now!”

“I believe you’re getting ahead of yourself, Lord Whitehill,” snapped Royland. “Because I believe it’s Roose Bolton who’s Warden of the North, and not you.”

“Aye! And we’ve been their bannermen for five bloody centuries, you stupid cunt!” Spittle flew from Ludd’s mouth as he turned on Royland. “So mayhaps it’s you lot who should watch their fucking tongues, for Lord Bolton does not tolerate the words of traitors.”

Ethan leaned back in the throne, his hands still tightly holding the sword on his lap. “That’s enough, Lord Whitehill. If you’ve just come to boast and brag, then kindly turn around and cross the river valley that I’ve allowed you to pass over.”

“‘Allowed’?” Ludd cocked an eye at Ethan. “That was our fucking crossing! One that my father had stolen from him by your bloody grandfather!”  _ Seven hells, this will go on until the bloody Wall melts.  _

“Lord Whitehill! State your business or turn around and leave!” shouted Elissa. “But do not think to insult our house further!”

Shaking his head, Ludd mumbled under his breath as the freckled Whitehill man tried to calm his lord. “You fucking Forresters have always looked down on us,” he finally found his words. “You think us as butchers, but you’ll sit by while your savages murder my kin?” 

Feigning ignorance, Ethan asked, “Which kin do you speak of, my lord?”

“You know bloody well what I fucking speak of!” Ludd screamed at Ethan. Already lacking any sort of indoor voice, Lord Whitehill’s screams were now so loud as to be heard in the Shadowlands. All in the court, even his own men, looked taken aback by his tone. “My nephew, Colin,” his voice cracked. and he nearly choked on them. “A savage from the woods wearing your colors cut his throat open like he were a fucking pig! How do you answer for this, ‘Lord Forrester’?” he asked mockingly. “Seeing as how they were from ‘your’ house, and acting in ‘your’ name, and all?”

Ethan tilted his head at the lord. “You speak as if your nephew were a babe with stars in his eyes, my lord, and not a butcher with a bloody knife in his hands.”

If one walked in at that moment, they would’ve sworn that Ludd Whitehill were permanently sunburnt, for a pale pinkness had overwhelmed his round face. His hand went to his sword, and he quickly advanced on the dais. Alanna, Duncan, and Royland all had swords in their hands, and the Forrester men in the hall stood ready to run through all of the men wearing the hill and stars. 

“My lord!” The freckled Whitehill soldier grabbed Ludd before he could free his sword. 

“Sod off, Gawen! Let them fucking try and draw blood!” another Whitehill man, with a pug nose and dirty blonde hair, grabbed the freckled man by the arm. “And we’ll see how Lord Bolton feels of it.”

Ludd, though still seething, calmed down for a moment and relinquished his grip on the sword. “You think this a jape, Forrester?”

“I find it to be at odds with what I’ve heard, is all,” replied Ethan.

“Truly?” Ludd beckoned for the pug-nosed man to step forward. “Britt here tells me differently.”

“Indeed, my lord,” said the man. Under his right eye was a nasty scar, and he was dressed in the same blue cloak and wool armor as the other men, but across from the hill and stars on his coat was an open black claw.

“You’re Lancelyn Warrick’s kin, aren’t you?” asked Elissa. The Warricks were a small house out by Karhold, little more than bannermen to the late Lord Rickard Karstark. Lord Warrick had been a steadfast supporter of King Robb, though clearly not all in his family felt the same.

“Aye, my lady. My father would wish us to end this fightin’ and come together to support the true king.”

Alanna scoffed. “Funny you say that, ser. From the way I understand it, Lord Lancelyn was so pissed at the Lannisters for what they did to his liege’s sons that he ran headfirst into battle at Duskendale. Do you come as a loyal subject of the crown or as a hostage, I wonder?”

Britt cracked a smile. “Merely a loyal supporter of King Joffrey, my lady. That’s what I was out doin’ in the Wolfswood, just keepin’ the king’s peace.” He looked at Ethan. “When those two savages set upon us for no reason.”

A smug grin worked its way back to Ludd’s mouth; Elissa looked at Ethan, who stared mutely at the Whitehills as they spun their story.

“Ah, so you were keeping the king’s peace, were you?” Ethan allowed a half-smile. “I understand you were just doing as told; the king does consider murdering and raping those who see him as false to be keeping the peace.”

“Now hold on a fucking second…” Ludd started.

“And doubtless, the king wishes for his lapdogs to carry off the women so they may be defiled further, because losing their homes and families is still not nearly enough pain in his eyes.”

Britt’s eyes went wide, and he looked nervously at his lord; Ludd, in turn, glared at Britt, his eyes as sharp as daggers.

“Ironborn, clearly,” said Ludd, finally. “They’ve been running wild around our homes since your fucking king chose to abandon us here while he fought for his own bloody glory.”

“They just up and came at us!” said Britt. “One of ‘em was a girl, plunged her knife into Colin’s throat when he tried to reason with ‘em!”

Duncan stared at Ludd and Britt, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly it looked as if it could snap clean off. “So, your nephew was killed for ‘keeping the king’s peace’. And what of my brother and niece? Did they turn into wolves and fall upon you?” Duncan slowly walked towards Britt, his sword hand ready and his voice low. “What of my brother’s sister? You bastards all had your way with her. You want justice, Whitehill? Where’s my justice? You so readily hide behind the king like cravens too scared to speak truly?” He now stood face-to-face with Britt, who’s smile dropped as Duncan’s eyes cut through him.

“Ask your people, the ones who murdered us,” Britt’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “They killed your kin, too.”

Wordlessly, Duncan grabbed Britt by the collar and wrapped his free hand around the smaller man’s neck. The Whitehill men readied their spears, only for the Forrester guards to turn their own loose. Ludd and Gawen jumped into the melee, attempting to pull off Duncan while Royland tried to push in. Ryon tightly held onto Talia, who covered her brother’s eyes, while Maester Ortengryn tried in vain to shout over the chaos. It was madness and chaos, and Elissa felt she could hear the sounds of battle calling like a siren’s scream. 

“ _ Enough! All of you!”  _ Ethan was now standing, sword in hand, as he glared at the melee below him. “Lord Whitehill, you’ve done nought but piss on my hospitality since you’ve arrived, and your man here speaks only sweet lies.”

“You think Lord Bolton cares to hear the way you speak to us, boy?” Britt demanded.

He was blindsided by Duncan burying his fist into his stomach, and he nearly fell to the floor. Ludd was stopped by Gawen from drawing his sword, but Ludd shoved him off with such force that his fist nearly took the freckled man in the head.

“You show Lord Forrester your fucking respect when you speak to him, boy!” said Royland to Britt, who clutched his stomach in pain.

Ludd looked back to Ethan, his nostrils flaring. “No wonder this house has gone to such shit. You give leave to women, pig farmers, and petty knights to run your bloody castle!” He gestured to those in the court. “Where’s my justice, boy? Believe me, you’ll answer to Lord Bolton if you don’t turn over the cravens who murdered my nephew!” 

“I know not of which murders you speak of, my lord. Only of those committed by men wearing your colors,” said Ethan. “Now kindly leave us, for we’ve nothing more to discuss.”

Lord Whitehill’s face turned red again and he stomped angrily on the carpet. “You dare deny me my justice, you little fuck? What kind of fucking house is this?!”

“A house of honorable men, my lord,” said Elissa. “Something you’d do well to learn from. Now my son has spoken. Please, leave us.”

He looked to protest, but instead took a deep breath and ran his hand through his blonde hair. “This is not over, for I’ll be back on the moon, and then you won’t be able to deny me further. And those savages will be hunted down and put to the sword, that I swear.” He turned to Britt, who nodded in affirmation. “Until then, ‘my lord’.”

Ludd turned and strode off, his men following behind. Britt gave a last, grinning look at Ethan before he too left with his lord.  _ Brood over these slights you think you’ve suffered, Lord Whitehill, for should your butchers find those you seek, then this sunrise shall be their last.  _ She breathed a sigh of relief as the last Whitehills left the hall, and got up to hug Ethan.

“Your son did well, my lady,” said Duncan. “Gregor would be most proud.”

“Aye, only way to deal with an arsehole like Ludd Whitehill is to be one right back at him,” echoed Royland. “Let him sulk back at Highpoint.”

Talia tightly hugged her brother. “You had me worried there for a moment.”

“You need not worry, lass,” said Alanna. “None of us in this hall would ever let harm come to Lord Ethan.”

Elissa, though relieved, couldn’t help but think of Ludd’s parting words.  _ What force could he possibly bring that would make him so bold? Shall he bring the Leech Lord with him when he returns?  _ The thought was most unpleasant.  _ Or that butcher of a bastard son, mayhaps?  _ The tales of Ramsay Snow ran wild throughout the North; she wondered what kind of lord would allow his son to do what he did to Lady Hornwood, but thought the question useless, for Roose Bolton had no regrets about betraying his king and murdering his bannermen. Why would he care half a groat about his son’s deviancies? 

“My lady?” Alanna put her hand on Elissa’s shoulder. “What’s troubling you?”

_ What isn’t?  _ “I...could you all excuse us?” Elissa turned to the court. “I’d like a moment with my son.”

Duncan and Royland bowed and left, mentioning their own matters to attend to on their way out, while Ortengryn took Talia and Ryon from the hall.

“Not you, Alanna,” she said as the captain turned to leave. “Please, stay a moment.”

And then there were three. Sunlight streamed in from the window, illuminating their shadows onto the wooded floor. 

“What is it, mother? You do not disagree with me, I hope?” asked Ethan.   
“No, of course not, my son. There’s no winning when you roll around in the mud with a boar. I simply fear for what Ludd meant by us not being able to deny him justice.”

Shrugging, Ethan said, “I don’t believe he means the Boltons. Maester Ortengryn tells me that Lord Bolton has not even arrived back at the Dreadfort.”

_ Thank the Ironborn for something, at least. _

Alanna rubbed the back of her head. “My lord, this may be unpleasant to bring up, but do you know why King Robb was so easily stabbed in the back?”

Ethan turned to the window again, solace to be found in the valley below. “Because to southern lords, honor is about as foreign a thing as shadow magic. And Roose Bolton and his bannermen alike are grasping social climbers who’d be right at home with that lot in King’s Landing.”

Alanna chuckled. “Quite, my lord.”

“More than that, though,” said Elissa as she paced across the dais, the hall still but for the popping of fires from the hearth. “My father had a name for it - the ‘great game’. He despised it, but played it all the same because it’s who he was expected to be, how he was raised and how his father and grandfather were brought up, and on it went centuries before Aegon and his sisters came to the Seven Kingdoms.” She looked longingly at Ethan, his features more Forrester than Branfield. It seemed that for every child of hers to take after her family and their blonde, Andal features, the others would never be mistaken for anyone other than strong-haired First Men. “I was taught from an early age how to speak to lords, how to curtsy, how to dance, for my children would all have to learn the same, and one of them could well have been the life or death of our house.” She laid her eyes on the ironwood grove below and smiled. “But it’s far different here. What you did today? That’s exactly how your father would’ve responded to a lord insulting his house, no matter if they were king or a gutter knight. But those in the south would’ve seen it as barbaric, for their words are poison laced with honey. Stark or Bolton, Forrester or Whitehill, it matters not to them; they see themselves as above such ‘low class’.”

“‘Cept it’s all the same, just sweet nothings instead of brawling,” said Alanna, her arms crossed. “Sod that lot. I’d much rather know where I stand with someone than having to dance about and take a wild fucking guess.”

Ethan turned to the women, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “The great game of southerners need not concern us in our homes. The Young Wolf wished us to be free of all that shit, did he not?”

Elissa put her hands on Ethan’s shoulders, and looked down at him. “There are far worse sorts than the Whitehills you’ll have to contend with, I fear. And they’re not the Boltons.”

“Freys.” Alanna spoke it, but both women thought it. The name alone was enough to make Elissa’s blood boil. “A Bolton or Whitehill are treasonous whores, but they’re still men of the North, and you’ll always know what to look for. But a Frey will smile at you while he’s sharpening the dagger, even if he needs a Lannister to gift it to him. The lot of them wouldn’t have dared to break guest right were the lions not giving them sanctuary. And if I have to take a stab in the dark, I’d wager that the Freys are going to be Lord Whitehill’s new friends.”

Pacing to the edge of the dais, Ethan ran his hands through his tangled hair and sighed. “If they think to march on us…”

“No such thing,” said Elissa. “Not now, at least. But they will certainly demand fealty from us, because they know they’ll have the blessing of the crown to kill us all if we refuse.”

Alanna walked to her lord, side to side as she went, and said, “And should they come, you will have nought the luxury of what happened earlier, for they’ll run to Tywin Lannister at the slightest hint of defiance. And you’ve no doubt been taught the meaning behind  _ The Rains of Castamere.”  _

He turned to face her. “They’ve no hostages to hold over our heads, and an entire country between here and King’s Landing. Do they dare to march when they’ve lost so many in the war?”

The sound of a clinking chain rattled through the hall. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, my lord.” Maester Ortengryn slowly walked towards the dais, a parchment in his left hand. “Lady Alanna, a raven just arrived from Crescent Falls,” and he extended the parchment to Alanna, who grabbed it from his hand and began reading furiously, and the look on her face went from curiosity to anguish in a heartbeat.

“Alanna?” asked Elissa.

“It’s...it’s my mother. They...those bastards fucking have her!” A tear rolled down her pale face and onto the letter, causing the ink to run off the paper. “She’s a ‘guest’ at the Twins, to ensure our good behavior.”

Ethan slumped into his throne and buried his face in his hands. “Bloody cravens, the lot of them. Won’t dare to face us openly because they know what would happen.”

“It’s hardly without precedent, my lord,” said Ortengryn as he clasped his chain. “Recall that Lord Stark took the youngest Greyjoy boy as his ward after the uprising.”

Alanna’s teary eyes flared at the maester. “I don’t care to hear your fucking opinon on politics, Ortengryn. And they’re not keeping my mother as a bloody ward!”

The Valeman averted his eyes, his hand clasping his chain ever tighter. 

“What of…” Elissa already knew the answer, but there was always a nagging feeling of hope in the back of her mind. “Your brothers? What of them?”

The captain shook her head and closed her eyes; her face was now streaked with tears. “Gone, both of them. I thought as much, but I had hoped...Gods, poor Yasmine...”

“If you need my leave, Alanna…” Ethan began.  
“My lord, I can’t bear to look at my sister’s face right now, for I have no words to comfort her.” In that moment, Alanna looked as if she’d melt away. “I’ll need to return to Crescent Falls soon, but I shan’t linger. And you’ll have need of me by your side.”

Elissa hugged Alanna, wishing she could find the words to soothe her, but none came to her tongue. “Are you sure, Alanna? It would be no trouble at all.”

“Thank you, my lady, but there’s really nothing I can do at home that my sister is incapable of doing. There’s much and more I can do for your son.”

Ethan nodded and stood from his throne, before pacing back to the window.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, my lady, I must check in with my scouts and see if our suspicions about the Freys hold true.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and straightened her dark red hair.

“Take all the time you need.”

She nodded and bowed before departing the hall. Ortengryn looked as if he was going to add another tasteless comment, but instead bowed as well and took his leave. Elissa returned to her son; Ethan was leaning against the window, absently staring off into the distance. Elissa could find no words to say and hugged him tightly. As she lost herself in her own mind, she felt as if she could hear distant screams and the sounds of steel ringing.

\---

THE DRAGONS SHALL RISE AGAIN!

“For all those who still hold true to House Targaryen, then the hour of their return is upon us. Sweeping across Slaver’s Bay and eradicating the fowl menace that has plagued the old Ghiscari cities for centuries is a fair queen, a just queen, a queen who has the blood of Aegon the Conqueror running through her veins. The day of the Usurper and his dogs is coming to a close, for Daenerys Targaryen will soon reign fire and blood upon the traitors in the Seven Kingdoms just as her ancestors did centuries ago. She is the rightful queen, one whom the poor and downtrodden across the realm can look to as a remedy for the constant warfare that plagues our fair homes. 

Astapor and Yunkai have already fallen before her, and Meereen shall soon follow them, for Queen Daenerys will see no man, woman, or child in chains wherever she may set foot. For all those in the Free Cities and across the Narrow Sea, fight to put the rightful queen on her throne, and cast down the tyrants of old. Join Daenerys Stormborn, last surviving child of King Aerys II, and fight for a better world.”

\--Pamphlets distributed across Braavos and the Free Cities, signed by “R.B.” of the Children of Valyria, late 299 AC

\---

“These maidens you brought are wonderful indeed. Your payment is enclosed. Remember, we do this for a better world than the one that came before.”

(Scrawled on one of the letters are the words “Fuck your better world.”) 

\--Letters sent from an undisclosed point of origin to the Inn of the Kneeling Man and the Bloody Shipbreaker, late 299 AC


	10. Echoing Embers (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his justice denied, Lord Whitehill promises to return with a stronger force, and the Lord of Ironrath must prepare for their arrival.

"Parry! Parry, you complete fuckin’ fool!” Ser Royland was busy in the training yard, the men under his tutelage a motley lot of fresh-faced boys barely grown. “By the Gods, I’ve never seen such a pathetic performance in all my life! You think that the Whitehills will happily agree to dance with you like you are, prancin’ about like a bloody fuckin’ mummer?”

Elissa and Alanna walked the battlements of Ironrath, taking in the day. As Royland trained the recruits, Ethan was in the food stores speaking with Duncan, while Talia folded linen with Tasha Tuttle and Ryon sat up against a wall, distantly watching those around him. 

“He always did favor vinegar over honey,” Elissa remarked. Royland reminded her of a southern knight she once met during a visit to King’s Landing; he was a young lad from House Thorne along the Goldroad, no older than five-and-twenty, but with the tongue of a Braavosi sailor and the manner of a feral dog. His view on the City Watch of King’s Landing could’ve been summed up by a variety of colorful, four-letter words that would’ve put a drunken Northman to shame. 

Alanna leaned over the railing and looked upon Royland, where he had knocked one of the recruits flat on his arse after a mistimed lunge. “He’s got a poisoned tongue, but I’d have no one else training my men. Not every house can boast of having a veteran of Pyke in their ranks, couth or not.”

Royland’s face still bore the scars that Ironborn reavers left when they sacked Blazing Brook, putting the men to the sword and carrying off the women to be their salt wives. He had put himself between his young niece and a reaver’s axe, and he would always thank the Old Gods that his head wasn’t taken clean off. “Ironborn are long on lofty ambitions and very short on tact,” the master-at-arms had once said. He happily served under Lord Ryswell when the time came to end Balon Greyjoy’s wishes of his own kingdom, and so many reavers on Pyke fell by his blade that King Robert himself happily toasted Royland before raising him to knighthood. But home was gone to Royland, and he never wished to be lord. “Guinerva can have the Brook; I’d sooner die with a sword in my hand than under coverlets.” Gregor happily brought the newly minted knight home after the rebellion, and Royland never missed a chance to speak of those days, always longing for a fresh foe to taste his blade.

“I fear for the recruits,” said Elissa. “If thoughts of desertion already cloud their mind, then Royland’s teaching will easily go over their heads.”

“Way I see it, it’s all a trial. If they can outlast Royland, they’ll not think twice about treasons. They may not like him, but every man who’s come through gives him their eternal thanks.” Alanna looked off into the midday sky, birds chirping overhead in the cold mist that wrapped around the sun. “Course, no man can be truly tested ‘til battle comes for them.”

Ludd’s parting words still rang in Elissa’s ears, mocking her, daring her to react. “What do your scouts have to report?”

“Seems we’re of the same mind, my lady. The bulk of the Whitehill host that came to Ironrath went south down the Kingsroad, and not east across the river. A few even split off north, towards the mountains.”

“He seeks justice for his nephew, and yet he cares not that our kin were murdered when they had hung up their blades and were too drunk to fight back.” Elissa’s vision became narrow every second she thought of it. Even for the great game played by southern lords and ladies, most would be aghast at Walder Frey so flagarently mocking the Gods. Not that many would do a thing about it when Tywin fucking Lannister had only to remind them of what he did to those who displeased his family. “And now he’s so happily climbed into bed with that lot. I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand how any of them can sleep at night without wondering if their throats will be opened by morning.”

The guard captain let out a breath of cold steam as she looked off towards the trees. “Just as the Freys would do nought without the blessing of the lions, Ludd Whitehill has yet to have a thought that Roose Bolton didn’t already have. You can separate the dragons from the rabble in this game most easily, my lady.”

The familiar sound of a rattling chain echoed down the battlements, and Elissa turned to see Ethan and Ortengryn pacing towards them. Both women bowed as the young Lord of Ironrath approached.

“I hope all is well, my son,” Elissa said.

Ethan gazed out over the battlements. “I shan’t be satisfied until we have a standing army ready to strike back against the Whitehills. Royland tells me that we’ve got half their number, and we need to make up the difference with the Glenmores.”

“If he thinks Lord Benjen will get off his arse and choose a side, then let him keep hoping,” said Alanna. “But he’ll do nothing unless properly motivated.”

One could be marching on Rillwater Crossing, and Elissa still felt that Benjen Glenmore would try to hold up in his chambers and hope the danger would pass him over. “I...mayhaps a marriage proposal could still be in play for us?” Elissa found the words hard to say, as all they did was serve to remind her of Rodrik’s betrothal that was now never to be. “Larence and Arthur still require wives, and I believe Mira could suit one of them well. And if you’d consent to it, Ethan, Fiona is of the same age as you. When Asher returns, mayhaps Elaena or Camylla could be persuaded to offer their hand to him.”

“This is all quite presumptuous, my lady,” said Ortengryn. “Such arrangements aren’t likely to be made quickly enough to raise an army, and no doubt the Boltons and Freys will seek out Lord Glenmore’s children for themselves. I wouldn’t be half surprised if Tywin Lannister were arranging such betrothals as we speak.”

“Fucking Tywin Lannister, he who shits gold.” Alanna spat over the side of the railing. “He oughta try and marry off Cersei to the new Ironborn king, bring all the realm under his boot. They just about deserve each other, if I’m being honest.”

Ethan listened absently, still staring out into the world beyond. “Ser Royland wishes to speak to his niece at Blazing Brook; he tells me she’ll do whatever she must to bring in the Glenmores, even if she has to go around Rodrik Ryswell’s back to do so.”

“The Ryswells have already declared for the Boltons, so they’ll be of no help to us anyway,” said Alanna. “Dustins, too. Lady Barbrey never did care a groat for the Starks.”

Elissa turned back to Alanna, and said, “I know where Barbrey will stand in this, and it shan’t be with those who murdered her king and countrymen.” Barbrey Dustin was such a curious woman, always hiding steel in her silk. The two had a sort of odd kinship between them when they feasted together at Winterfell, though Gregor had warned her to always watch her back with the Lady of Barrowton. 

“Do we truly know, though?” asked Ethan. “We thought the Boltons wouldn’t dare to turn on us, but they climbed in bed with the lions as easily as a sot would a whore. I’ll trust none until I know they won’t stab me in the back at the first opportunity.” He then turned to his mother, dark eyes laced with shooting red veins. “Mother, if you’d excuse me, I’d like to speak to Lady Alanna.”

“Of...of course, my son,” and she bowed and took her leave. Ortengryn followed her, his chain shaking with every step.

“He’s a most curious boy, your son. Every bit like his father in temperament, but not at all like his brothers in martial prowess.” He spoke with a refined accent that called to mind his Vale birth, far removed from the sharp, short accent of Northerners. “He spends much time just pouring over books, all quite ponderous tomes on history and battle.”

 _As he always has._ The twins had made the castle library their second bedchamber since they were babes, always finding a new tome to read; whether they were about the history of naval warfare or the many children of the Conciliator and the Good Queen mattered not, for they were enraptured by every word put to page. 

“It’s a good thing, is it not?” she asked as they walked down the wooded steps and into the courtyard. Servants came and went, while guards patrolled the yard and Raidyn the blacksmith worked by his forge under a pair of trees near the grove. Even were Royland not shouting at the recruits loud enough for those across the sea to hear, one still would’ve found it difficult to hear over the bustle in the courtyard. “Too many fools have studied their history so little; it’s why we have endless warfare, endless strife, and endless pain.” She found it curious that the maester seemed to dismiss Ethan’s pursuits; old Maester Candlyn would have happily nurtured such, not waved his hand at it.

“Quite, Lady Forrester.” He scratched the back of his neck. “But what we’re speaking of is not a simple skirmish between two houses. Any such conflict is like to draw in the Boltons, and with them comes Lannister gold. If Lord Ethan wishes to read up on his history, I suggest he start with what Tywin Lannister did to the Reynes and Tarbecks.”

The Old Lion seemed to never relinquish his glory days when he could easily put entire houses to the torch for the simple matter of disagreement with the Laughing Lion. It was hardly a surprise that he felt he could do the same to the Starks, but none ever spoke of the long memories of those from the Westerlands. 

“Really, my lady, I’d thought you’d have a closer relationship to the situation at hand,” he continued as they stopped under a tree hanging on the edge of the courtyard. “Do you not recall what Lord Tywin did to your house?”

The question caused Elissa to seethe, and Ortengryn realized his mistake a second too late, as he quickly looked away and grasped his chain. 

“Truly, maester? Now you think to speak as an expert on Lannister intentions towards my family?” Her fists reflexively balled as she spoke, and one foot was placed before the other as if she were a shadowcat ready to pounce on her next meal. “The Mad King murdered my parents in one of his fits of jealousy, and most of my father’s men fell with my brothers. You truly make it sound as if not only does the man shit gold, but the Bank of Braavos licks it clean. I imagine he takes pride in ordering his lapdog to burn a lightly defended castle with children locked inside. All the better to boast of how he eradicated those loyal to the dragons so his bloody family can be in a better position to rewrite history.”

“I’m...I’m truly sorry for bringing it up, my lady.” He would not look her in her eyes; all the better, for the Valeman was a smaller, wiry man and doubtless didn’t care to look up at the taller woman as she glared down at him. “I’m afraid I’ve not been here long enough to completely understand the ways of Northerners.”

 _You’ve got that bloody right._ “Yes, you are quite new here. Your perspective on the situation at hand, as you call it, is most different from how Candlyn would’ve viewed it.” Candlyn was a Northman by birth, an old, stubborn man who could’ve read a visiting lord in a matter of moments while exchanging only a few pleasantries. He had passed shortly before war swallowed the realm, and the Citadel, in their infinite wisdom, saw fit to give the Forresters a Valeman who’s only knowledge of warfare was likely to be found in those tomes he so readily dismissed. “It almost seems as if you’re not so much cautioning us as you are suggesting acquiescence.”

The maester finally looked up at her. “Merely that discretion is the better part of valor. We are up against forces that can’t be beaten back in a simple fight. You all wish immediate vengeance while your minds are still clouded. My lady, you are not of the North, either, and I thought mayhaps that you’d understand just how problematic and thorny this matter is.”

She stepped back and unclenched her fists. It was true enough, what he said, though he always seemed to skirt around when he spoke and avoided tackling the heart of the issue head on when a few quick words would easily suffice. “Please, maester, do not take me for ungrateful. Your services are most valuable here, after all. We simply have a divergence of opinion.”

“I admit, this land feels most foreign at times, and I don’t feel I’ll ever truly understand it.” _You and me both._ “The archmaesters unfortunately take a dull view of those who live here.”

Elissa looked over Ortengryn’s shoulder and found Ryon sitting up against the wall, clutching a rock in his left hand while staring off into the sky. Excusing herself, she strode over to where her son sat.

“If it’s a book you wish, I could easily bring you one,” she said. “Better than staring off all day.”

Ryon glanced at her a moment before hurling the rock at a practice dummy lying by the training yard; the rock tore through its straw head before crashing against the fence post and sliding to the grass.   
She stared at her son’s handiwork a moment before turning back to him, his face blank and staring past her. “You trying to take off someone’s head? The way you threw that, I wouldn’t wish to know how it would react upon meeting flesh.”

He made no reply, and continued staring off in the direction in which he threw the rock. Leaning down next to him, she gently put her hand on his shoulder. “What’s troubling you, my son? Please, don’t be afraid to tell me.” 

“I want a sword. A sharp one,” he finally said. “Enough to cut through Lord Whitehill’s head like butter.”

When she heard his words, she didn’t know whether to be horrified or approving. She wished much the same as he stood in the hall and spoke nought but lies, but to hear her youngest son say the words out loud was something different. A lifetime ago, she’d have cautioned him against such thoughts, but it seemed as if the world would not long let Ryon be a mere witness to its horrors.

“If you wish to learn how to fight, I can ask Ser Royland to teach you. None here know it better than he.” The thought of her son under Royland’s tutelage was a most interesting one, and would doubtless amuse the master-at-arms to no end. As long as he refrained from using his more colorful vocabulary with Ryon and stuck to arms, he’d keep his tongue. 

Ryon silently shook his head, still not looking at his mother. “I don’t wish to fight them, I wish to kill them. Horrible men killed father and Rodrik like sheep, and I want to do the same to them in kind.” He finally looked at Elissa. “When will Ethan let us march, mother?”

“Not for quite some time, my son.” The more he spoke, the more she felt as if two halves of her were fighting inward; one wished to be gentle and explain why his words were not to be spoken lightly. But the other half, yearning for blood all the same, won out. “I think it’s best Ser Royland teaches you, for when you come face to face with a Whitehill, they shall not get the better of you. You don’t win fights when you know not how to swing a sword.” 

He looked down at the ground, and a tear fell from his eye. Elissa hugged him tightly, and wished for the world to be just. 

“Is Jenna up and about?” she asked. The poor girl had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past several days, only staying long enough to bear witness as her sister’s remains were cleansed in a pyre, but she had finally joined them all for breakfast that morning, even if she had said nought a word. 

Ryon nodded and wiped the tear from his eye. 

“Why not go see to her? Think of better things.” _Please, my son, do not become lost to me so young._

He jumped up and took off towards the castle, nearly stumbling and falling over as he went. The courtyard was so loud and full of life that she questioned if any had even noticed Ryon sitting there; Royland still yelled at the recruits under his charge, while above them on the battlements, Ethan and Alanna still spoke, too distant to hear. She caught sight of Talia by the trees past the grain stores, carefully placing cloth into a basket as Tasha ran mud-stained shirts and breeches through a container full of water. 

“Hello, mother,” Talia said as she saw Elissa approach. “Thank the Gods the maester took his leave of you.”

“Did he give you a speech about what a waste it is to read those books?” asked Elissa, her eyes glancing about to find Ortengryn, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Talia threw a folded jerkin into a basket and then crossed her arms. “Just won’t stop bothering Ethan about when he’s going to do as the Lannisters ask of him. He keeps saying we need to send someone to King’s Landing so they’ll take us as loyal. What does he know, mother? Southerners so often seem to forget the true meaning of loyalty.”

Elissa cleared her throat. “Southerners?”

Talia blushed, and then gave a quick giggle. “Not you, of course!” Her expression turned to one of yearning. “It’s just...I miss Maester Candlyn. He’d have the right idea in this.”

“We all do, sweet thing.” 

In truth, it was quite a surprise when they found the old maester unmoving in his bed one morn; though he was nearing sixty years, he was as fit as a horse, and took the time to jog about the battlements as each sun rose. Elsera found it was a simple failure of the heart and nothing more; House Forrester was to rely on her as their healer until a new maester could be sent for, and she had served admirably in the role, even helping to deliver Alexia's newborn son when she unexpectedly gave birth during a visit to Ironrath. Elissa would’ve much preferred if Elsie could’ve stayed on in the role, but the archmaesters, in addition to having a dull view of the north, held the same opinion on women.

“But let’s not be ungrateful,” said Elissa. “Your brother owes his leg, and Jenna her life, to the maester. He deserves that much, at least.”

Tasha, who had been quietly working with her back turned, immediately spun to face Elissa after hearing that. She looked a sight better than when she arrived; she wore a fresh, dark green dress and her hair was neatly straightened and fell into curls at the fringes. 

“You look well today, Tasha. And I understand Jenna is feeling better, as well?” Elissa carefully worded it, for she knew all too well the need to be delicate. She’d heard enough pleasantries from the days after the rebellion, the usual ‘Are you alright?’ and ‘I feel for you.’ that gave her a strong desire to smack the person asking her.

Tasha smiled warmly and curtsied. “She is, milady. And takin’ a likin’ to Ryon, I feel.” Elissa suppressed a chuckle as she recalled Saemas’ wish to marry his children to her’s. “I thought I’d lost everyone that day, but your children saved us. It’s a debt I’ll not be able to repay, I fear.”

Elissa clasped Tasha’s hands in her own. “You need not worry about repaying us, Tasha. Your family is a part of this house.” The smaller woman blushed and averted her eyes momentarily. “I hate to ask, but...have you heard any news of Gared?” Her husband’s squire had gone with him to the Twins; if the Gods were good, he’d have made it out alive. But the Gods seemed to abandon all that night.

Turning away, Tasha stared off towards the grove, towering ironwood trees guarding a sparkling pond. “Afraid not, milady. I hope and hope every day that I’ll see him walkin’ back, wearin’ that silly smile of his. But I’m no fool; I only fear for what those bastards could’ve done to him.” She turned back to the Lady of Ironrath, a fresh tear under her eye. “Still, I shan’t give up hope. I pray to the Gods every night for his safe return. It’s all I can do.”

Talia leaned her head on Tasha’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “We’ll all keep him in our prayers, Tasha.”

Of all her children, none would ever mistake Talia for anyone else’s, for the girl looked just like Elissa at that age. Her name came from Elissa’s mother, a way of never forgetting where she came from, even as the world tried to make her forget.

Tasha smiled, tears streaking her face. “I...I am honored, miladies.” Grabbing a nearby rag, she wiped the tears away and cleared her throat. “Milady, I don’t mean to be grasping, but Talia tells me of what happened earlier, with the Whitehills.”

“I’m so sorry those butchers came here, but they did not find what they sought after,” said Elissa. “Josie and Elsie are safely away now.”

“Lord Stark would never have stood for this shite,” said Tasha, her eyes becoming fierce. “Nor would have Lord Glover. But now the Whitehills get to do as they fuckin’ please with us? It ain’t right.”

Talia softly brushed the farmer’s hair. “Duncan nearly killed one of ‘em. Pug-faced brat with a constant smirk.” Elissa shared Duncan’s rage, as when Britt Warrick spoke his lies with a smile and a nod, it would’ve been enough to make the most patient septon lash out.

Talia’s words caused Tasha to look at her, her dark pupils going wide. “Was...was his name Britt?”

 _Oh, seven fucking hells._ “It was,” came Elissa’s reply. “Son of Lord Lancelyn Warrick near Karhold.”

The good-wife started breathing heavily, her eyes glaring past Elissa. “He...he was there with ‘em. When they came, him and that Whitehill boy, Colin. They...they…” she doubled over and landed on the grass below, flat on her arse. Elissa and Talia both leaned down and embraced her as tears began to flow once more. “Gods...that bastard ran his sword through Saede when she picked up an axe…” She nearly choked on the words. “Then he had his men beat my husband ‘til he told them where we hid our coin. And he...they all took turns...” She grabbed downwards, clutching a piece of her dress between her legs. She needed to say no more. “He’s the bastard who cut open Jenna’s arm!” The words came out in between sobs. “Lord Whitehill wishes justice for his nephew? That little shit got what he bloody well deserved, you ask me. I only wish I coulda seen your daughter cut open his fuckin’ throat.” 

In a just world, they’d have their swift vengeance. Lord Glover would’ve happily heard Tasha’s tale and demanded the heads of those responsible. But it was a new North, and neither Lords Bolton or Whitehill would ever desire to entertain the stories of a serf. It wasn’t right, but if no one was willing to give them justice, then they’d have to take it themselves.

“Please, milady. I’d very much like to be with my daughter right now,” said Tasha, her eyes not quite meeting Elissa’s.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Elissa helped Tasha to her feet and gave her a warm smile as she departed.

They were startled by sounds of crashing, and the yells of the guards. Turning around, they saw Ser Royland dragging a soldier in tattered armor to a stump in the middle of the courtyard, and Elissa immediately knew what was to come.

“Summon the lord!” yelled Royland as he kicked the soldier to the ground. “His judgment is needed!”

Scrambling to their feet, they rushed back into the courtyard as a crowd started to gather around. Ethan and Alanna came running from the battlements as Duncan joined Royland by the stump. Blending in with the crowd was Ryon, and by his side was Maester Ortengryn, clutching his chains ever tightly. 

“Shit! This was bound to happen sooner or later,” said Alanna with a sigh. “That’s one of the recruits.”

“One of those making trouble, I take it?” asked Elissa, looking at the captured soldier.

“The ringleader, in truth. Been makin’ noises about desertin’ for the past several moons.”

Ethan looked over the soldier, but he refused to look his lord in the eyes as he sat on the grass, his knees weakly raising him up. “Tell me your name, ser,” Ethan asked calmly, yet firmly.

The soldier did not answer, nor did he look up from the ground. He was caught unaware by a smack to the face from Royland. “Answer your lord, you bloody knob!”

“It’s...Erik, milord,” the soldier barely got out as his lips trembled, and he took a quick glance into Ethan’s eyes.

“His crimes, Ser Royland?” asked Ethan.

“Desertin’, thievin’, being a fuckin’ craven,” Royland answered. “He was supposed to be guarding the armory, but he thought he’d make off with a few of Raidyn’s pieces instead.”

Erik looked up and yelled, “I did nothing wrong, milord! What was I s’posed to do? I’ve got a family to feed, and since Lord Gregor abandoned us, we’ve been’ barely survivin’!”

Royland punched Erik in the face again, sending the man’s head to the ground. “Show some fuckin’ respect, boy!” 

The Lord of Ironrath crossed his arms and gave the recruit a lookover, his expression contemplative and searching. “So you think to right one wrong by committing another? Is that it?”

The beaten man said nothing, and Royland prepared to strike again.

“Erik!” Alanna called out. “Did I not clearly tell you about the rationing? Or were you too busy scheming to pay attention?”

“Alanna, you’re servin’ a house that’s existence is doomed, and you fuckin’ know it!” Erik pleaded. “What is rationin’ gonna do for me and mine? I oughta go over to the Whitehills; they’d take good care of us.”

Mayhaps Ethan could’ve been swayed by his words had he not said that, but that time had come and gone. With a look of pure fury, Ethan brought the back of his hand across Erik’s face with such force that it sent him crashing to the ground. All present looked in surprise at their lord as he clutched his hand and winced in pain.

“I’ve never seen this side of him before,” whispered Talia.

 _Nor have I, sweet thing._ But in truth, Ethan was merely acting out how all felt. She looked over at Ryan, who scowled at Erik, his fists clenched tight enough that Elissa feared his nails might draw blood.

“My lord, you know what the punishment for thievin’ is?” asked Royland.

“Indeed, I do, ser,” Ethan said with a nod as he grimly looked down at Erik.

“A few fingers are too good for this craven,” said Duncan with a wave of his hand. “Should just send him to the Wall and see how he likes the cold.”

That sent Erik into convulsions, and his once arrogant demeanor turned nervous as he pleaded with Ethan.

Ethan glanced over at them, his eyes settling on Talia’s, who simply shook her head and looked away.

“Alanna?” said Ethan. “Your axe, if you may.”

“Of course, my lord,” and she unsheathed the axe from her hilt and extended it towards Ethan, who took it and ran his fingers over its cold edge.

“No! Milord, no! Please!” screamed Erik, as Royland forced one of his hands onto the stump. “Please, I have a family!”

Ethan stood over Erik, axe in hand. “I am not unreasonable, ser. I’ll give you a choice; you can either lose the fingers or go to the Wall and never see your family again.”

The recruit struggled to get any words out. 

“The Night’s Watch does need people quite desperately, I hear,” said Ethan, and he turned to Alanna, who moved to grab Erik.

“No! Please! Just take my fuckin’ fingers and get it bloody over with!” Erik had turned away, and he shook all over. 

As Royland held out Erik’s hand, Ethan somberly walked to the stump and gave the axe one last touch. Taking in a deep breath, he said, “I, Ethan Forrester, Lord of Ironrath and Defender of the Ironwood Groves, have found you guilty of deserting and thieving. For your crime, you shall lose three fingers. May the Gods have mercy on you.” And with that, he raised the axe high above his head before bringing it down on the stump; it was silent but for Erik’s screams, and then came the collective gasps of those gathered. As Ethan lifted up the now bloodied axe, three of Erik’s fingers lay on the stump, and blood began soaking into the wood.

“Maester!” Ethan called to Ortengryn. “Get him patched up!”

“Right away, my lord,” came the maester’s reply, and he escorted a bruised and weeping Erik away from the courtyard.

Elissa glared down at the stump, a fresh axe mark dug into the wood as blood seeped through it. 

“I feared this would happen eventually,” said Alanna. “Hopefully any other recruits who see this lose heart in desertion.”

Ethan turned to his castellan, a distant look in his eyes. “Duncan, how is the food situation coming along, if I may ask?”

Duncan rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re distributing it as evenly as can be, my lord. Though I fear you’ll not satisfy all.”

“You’d think this lot have never seen hardship before. They should’ve been there at Blazing Brook when the Ironborn struck. There wasn’t a crumb of bread or a drop of ale to be found after,” said Royland.

“No hardship like this, ser. The men, needless to say, are at a bit of a loss since their lord and king were murdered. Though most don’t act out quite so boldly,” Alanna said as she glanced about her men in the courtyard. “Mostly you get a few barbed words and an empty threat. Let us hope none shall follow Erik’s example.”

Ethan stared off past everyone, nothing in particular crossing his eyes. “I...need a moment with my family. Please, if the three of you would meet me in the great hall shortly, we have business to discuss.”

Alanna, Duncan, and Royland all bowed and took their leave. Elissa put a hand on her son’s shoulder as he looked down at the bloody stump.

“Mother...I don’t know if I did the right thing,” he said distantly.

“‘Course you did, Ethan!” said Ryon. “Any who wish to join the Whitehills deserve whatever they get!”

Talia shook her head. “They were just words. He was starving and desperate. If you were in his place, could you honestly say you’d not do the same?”

Ethan looked up at his sister, her eyes sad and heavy. He looked as if he wanted to say something, anything, to bring a smile to Talia’s face, but he could find no words.

“Being lord is not for the faint of heart, my son,” said Elissa, finally. “It’s not something you take lightly. I can’t tell you whether or not you did the right thing; you’ll have to decide that on your own.”

Her son nodded, and took another look at the stump before turning away in disgust. “Mother, if you’ll come with me. I’d very much like you to be present for this.”

Elissa knew exactly what her son spoke of.

They found the Ironrath council in the lord’s solar, by the great hall. It was a simple, lightly furnished room lit by an overhead chandelier and a small window. A table sat in the middle of the room - Alanna, Duncan, and Royland all sat and drank wine, while Maester Ortengryn stood by, his hands clasping a chain of a different sort. A bookcase lined with great tomes stood against the wall, while a painting of Gregor, along with his parents and siblings, hung overhead. Simpler times, to be sure. Poor Aidin and Cregan, both gone before their times. Aidin had met the same fate as Elissa’s parents, burned alive by the Mad King, his terrible laughter overwhelming the screaming of the victims. Aidin’s lovely wife, the beautiful Lady Evelyn Ryswell, had been the joy of Ironrath ever since she came up from the Rills. Her smiles, her laughter, her quick wit, none could match her. And when she announced she was with child, it was the most sincerely happy that Elissa had ever seen Aidin, always so snarky and quick with a glib remark at any situation. 

But when news of Aidin’s terrible fate travelled North, Evelyn sank into despair, taking to the castle’s stock of sweetwine and brandy all too readily. And then one day, she disappeared from the keep altogether. Lord Rodrik had despaired over the disappearance of his sister, and combed the countryside for any sign of her. Some sailors from White Harbor claimed to see Evelyn walking into the Bite and never emerging, while others told more ribald tales of her seducing a Tyroshi pirate and sailing off with him, becoming Queen of the Narrow Sea. Elissa so missed her smile. _Always so close, and yet so far._

Ethan took his seat at the head of the table, and Elissa stood beside him, looking over the assembled council.

“I think you all understand why I’ve invited you here,” said Ethan, and he motioned for Ortengryn. 

The maester handed Ethan an ornate, dark green chain that bore both an ironwood tree and Forenna’s bow on its spherical medallion. The three council members looked at the chain in reverence as Ethan laid it flat on the table.

“We all mourn Thermund Branch,” Ethan began. “He served my father as sentinel since the early days of King Robert, and all of us are most grateful for his service. We shall not see his like again.” 

“Old Gods, prepare a place for Thermund by your side,” Alanna started in prayer. “May he not revel with the weirwoods alone.” 

A moment of silence passed for their fallen brethren.

“I feel the only way to honor his memory, and that of my father’s, is to gift this chain to one of equal worth. And let me just say,” Ethan cast his eyes about the three in front of him. “You’ve all served me admirably thus far, and this was not an easy choice to make. Whatever I decide, just know that all of you have your place in Ironrath, now and always.”

Elissa looked over those gathered; both Duncan and Royland eagerly leaned forward, while Alanna sat back quietly.

The young lord looked at the council in front of him, before his eyes settled on his choice. “Lady Alanna Grayson, please step forward.”

She thought mayhaps she misheard her son, and the looks of the council were just as bewildered. A look of pure shock spread across Alanna’s face, while Duncan and Royland glanced about with expressions of bemusement, and Ortengryn looked on contemplatively. But Ethan nodded towards the guard captain, and nervously, she stood up and walked towards her lord. As she took a knee, Ethan slid the chain over her head and then beckoned her to her feet.

“Lady Alanna, I name you Sentinel of Ironrath. May you wear this chain proudly.”

Alanna blushed, and struggled to find her words. “I...I will, my lord! I swear by the Old Gods, I’ll not let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” said Ethan as he leaned back in his chair.

Duncan chuckled. “Interesting choice, my lord.”

“Yes. Quite,” echoed Royland.

“Do you two disagree?” asked Elissa sharply. “If so, please speak now.”

The two cast nervous glances at one another, and then to Ethan, who simply raised a questioning eyebrow, before turning back to Lady Elissa.

“Not at all, my lady,” Duncan spoke first. “I’ll serve your son and your house, no matter his choice.”

She looked towards Royland, who nodded in affirmation. “As...as will I, my lady. It’s just a surprising choice, all things considered.”

“If my father, or Rodrik, or any other lord in this house were to make this decision, I have little doubt as to whom they’d choose,” said Ethan as he looked towards a grateful Alanna. “Now, we must all come together, for I fear the Whitehills will be back at our gates before the moon has turned.”

“It’s as you say, my lord,” said Alanna. “I have quite the feeling that when I check back with my men, they’ll report seeing the Frey towers accompanying the hill and stars.”

“Which complicates things considerably,” said Ortengryn. “A petty skirmish is but a small matter compared to fighting a great house.”

Royland scoffed at the maester. “Great house, my bloody arse! It’s not Walder Frey who’s Lord Paramount, is he?”

“He may answer to Lord Baelish in theory, but he and his son will rule the Riverlands in all but name while the lord is away.” Ortengryn trailed off on the last words; it was just like Tywin Lannister to meddle in affairs he didn’t understand, such as placing an absent Valeman in charge of the Riverlands. 

“This is all purely academic,” said Elissa as she waved her hand and looked out the lone window. “We know it’s the lions who truly rule over us all; it matters not whether the paw is a flayed man or a tower.”

Duncan cleared his throat. “Let us all use our heads while they’re still attached, shall we? If we can combine the strength of the Graysons, Brownbarrows, and Ellivers, get the mountain clans to back us, and by some miracle of the Gods, still find a way to bring over the Glenmores, then we’d have a fighting chance of pushing back the Whitehills.” Elissa sensed a caveat coming. “But the Boltons and any houses who’ve pledged fealty have men beyond counting, enough of an army to cover the entire Wolfswood and still not have near enough room to breathe.”

“And who, pray tell, have pledged loyalty beyond the Ryswells and Dustins?” asked Ethan. “And who among them is truly loyal to Roose Bolton?”

“The Lockes, for one,” said Alanna. “Lady Cerwyn looks to be movin’ that way, as well. And recall that Lord Manderly’s son is a guest of the crown, as is Lord Umber.”

Elissa turned back to Alanna. “I’ve known Wyman for many a year, and I know that his words for all to hear and his true intentions are separate things.” She had not heard back from Mira since she wrote that letter less than a week before, and feared for the silence. 

“Aye,” said Royland. “He’ll do what’s right, without a bloody doubt.”

“And are we forgetting Lady Anya, or Bastien Elliver?” asked Ortengryn, annoyance beginning to seep into his tone. _Yet more bloody “guests” of the Lannisters and their new lapdogs._

“Harrion Karstark, Lancelyn Warrick…” intoned Duncan.

“I think you’ve all made your bloody points,” said Ethan, looking as if he found slicing a thief’s fingers off to be a welcome break from the reality of politics. “Obviously, we’re at a disadvantage. I was well aware of such. If there’s one thing the Lannisters know how to do, it’s fix things to ensure they’re always in a winning position. Craven and dishonorable, but that’s the great game for you.”

“Precisely, my lord,” said Ortengryn. “At a glance, we have but ourselves and the Brownbarrows, and none else. Hardly a standing army.”

“My niece will provide whatever men she can,” Royland began, and as the maester began to speak more, the knight cut him off. “And damn the Ryswells to seven bloody hells if they throw a fit about it!”

Elissa turned to Alanna, who was nervously tugging on the back of her hair. “As much as I hate to say it, the maester’s words are true. While my mother is still a guest at the Twins, it’ll be most difficult for me to provide men without looking as if I’m ready to march on them. And my sister would certainly not consent, either.”

“Which is why we must play this smart,” said Duncan. 

“Indeed,” said Alanna with a nod. “When our guests arrive tonight, you show them the proper respect like a southern lord. Let them think you’re showing fealty, and they’ll not see you sharpening the dagger.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, and touched a hand to his forehead as he took in the words. “Throwing our honor to the wind...at what point do we stop rolling around in pig shit?”

“You recall the King Who Knelt, my son?” asked Elissa. “Mayhaps his bannermen wished him to fight to the bitter end, but he knew to bend the knee because the lives of his subjects would all be spared. You can’t slay three dragons with a few dozen axes, but you can rise up later to tear the claws off the lions. And my father may have thought the Northmen as strange and foreign to him, but he once said that if the Gardeners had been more like the Starks, then the Reach would rule over all.”

The young lord looked at his mother for a moment, his dark eyes swirling with conflicted emotions. It was quite a thing to ask of a Northern lord, about as simple as asking a reaver to stop taking salt wives.

“It’s the only way we’ll survive this, my lord,” said Alanna. “Harsh, but that’s how southerners play the great game.”

Duncan and Ortengryn nodded at her words; Royland bitterly clutched his goblet, hard enough to smash it between his fingers, before sighing and saying, “Fine, fine. But if we don’t gather an army soon, I won’t hold the men responsible for lopping off the heads of any Freys or Whitehills they chance across.”

A dark laughter rose up from those present, all except Ortengryn, who merely shook his head. 

“So, my lord, how do you wish to proceed tonight?” asked Alanna. “Whatever your decision, all of us here will swear by it.”

Looking over his council, Ethan found all present to nod in agreement with her words. He then stood up and began pacing about the carpet. “Honestly, I want to imagine my father or Rodrik would find an easier way to go about this. But it seems the die is cast.”

“Shall we meet them at the gates, my lord?” asked Royland. “Let them freeze in the cold for a while, I say.”

Sighing, Duncan said, “Yes, that sounds wise indeed. Let’s open by pissing off the people who have Alanna’s mother as a guest.” Alanna flinched at the mere mention of that.

“I’d prefer to have it both ways, if at all possible,” said Ethan, clasping his hands together. “I’ll treat them the same as I treated Lord Whitehill; the envoys can meet us in the hall while the rest freeze outside. Ironrath isn’t large enough to house such a combined force, after all.” Alanna and Royland both chuckled ruefully. “Have most of our men put on the battlements; I doubt the Freys will be convinced of our forces, but at least this way we can keep an eye on their movements.”

Royland stood up. “I’ll see to it at once, my lord,” and took his leave.

“And I shall check on my scouts,” said Alanna. “I’d wager the entire treasury of Casterly Rock that we’ll be seeing the twin castles in the Wolfswood.”

Ethan nodded, and she left as well, as did Duncan and Ortengryn.

“So mother, tell me of the great game you speak of.”

 _I’d very much like to forget it._ “Think of it this way,” she said. “Imagine Cyvasse played to the death, and you’ve got a rough sense of how it works. Everything you say will be under the utmost scrutiny. I’ll tell you here and now that it’s nothing like dealing with a Wolfswood lord. When my mother was a girl, she claimed to have seen a great lord on the verge of marrying Princess Daella be suddenly cast aside and lose his prestige, his pride, and the hands of any woman who’d thought to offer them. And it was all because he said the wrong words to the wrong lady.” She quite liked that story, and enjoyed it all the more when she was told that the lord was in fact a Peake who’d lost everything.

Her son listened intently to her, nodding along, before finally saying, “I find it all to be complete horseshit, if you’ll excuse my language.”

She smiled softly at that, for it was what any wished to say about the great game.

Night fell on Ironrath like a pack of hungry wolves. In the great hall, Elissa stood by her son as he sat on the great ironwood throne, tapping rhythmically on its arm as he waited. Talia and Ryon were seated on the dais, while Duncan and Royland paced on the floor in front of them. Guards lined the sides of the hall as they had earlier that day, spears at the ready. They weren’t even close to being ready to receive their guests, but they had little choice in the matter.

“No surprise here,” Alanna had said earlier. “Hills and towers are moving through the Wolfswood as one.”

The thought of receiving the Freys in her hall was enough to make Elissa wish she had a cache of wildfire stored within. It would never ease the pain, nor come close, but the thought was pleasing all the same. 

Maester Ortengryn walked into the hall, the tell-tale rattle of chains heralding his arrival, and approached the dais. “My lord, I’m sorry to say that both the Graysons and Ellivers will not be able to provide support to Lord Brownbarrow.”

Ethan flicked up his hands in annoyance, while Royland mumbled curses under his breath.

“‘Tis not what Alanna told us!” said Elissa. The sentinel was surely not likely to lie about such matters, not when she had as much of an axe to grind against the Boltons and Whitehills as the rest of them.

“She may wish for her men to join us, but her sister was most adamant in refusing. I believe her words were ‘My mother’s safety is more important than a few farmers’.”

Duncan looked about the hall in frustration. “Same tune with the Ellivers, I take it?”

“Indeed,” the maester replied. “Lady Rosamund does not wish to rustle the lions while they circle her brother.”

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, Ethan glared into the distance. “Thank you, maester. That will be all,” he said without even bothering to look in Ortengryn’s direction.

“I’m...truly sorry, my lord,” said the maester as he bowed. “Mayhaps you…”

“Thank you, maester,” Ethan repeated in a harsh tone, and glared directly at the Valeman. “Please, you may take your leave.”

Nodding, Ortengryn scurried from the hall and towards his rookery. 

“Seven bloody hells, this can’t be happening.” Elissa ran her hands through her hair and down her face. 

Talia shared a glance with Ethan. “If they’ll sit by and do nothing, then what hope do the rest have? Must it all be placed on your shoulders?”

Ryon said nothing as he stewed in his chair, his brow crunched and his arms folded across his chest.

They had little time to think on the matter, as Alanna came rushing into the hall, a mass of green cloaks following her. “They’re here, my lord. Walder Frey’s sons, grandsons, granddaughters, the whole bloody lot of ‘em. And Lord Whitehill looks as if he were a cat who just swallowed a canary.”

“How many?” asked Ethan.

“By my count, thirty Freys and just as many Whitehills. Obviously not a fight they’re after.”

_Only because they know our weaknesses._

Looking up at his mother, Ethan whispered, “This evening is going bloody well.”

“I’m sorry, Ethan,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. But I know not what to tell Lucas now that all have turned their backs on him,” he softly replied as his eyes met the floor, and then he turned to Alanna. “Let’s invite them in, shall we?”

Alanna motioned for the guards at the doors to open them.

“What’s this I hear of your sister?” Elissa asked the sentinel. “We won’t be getting men from her?”

She turned to Elissa, wearing a confused expression. “What? You can’t be bloody serious!”

“Raven just arrived. Ellivers are responding the same.” Elissa crossed her arms and looked away, peaceful thoughts far from her mind.

“I’ll ride to Crescent Falls tomorrow and ask her of it,” said Alanna as she nervously looked towards the doors. “But my lady, I don’t quite understand this. She shouldn’t have had an issue with it at all! It’s not like we were asking her to help march on the bloody Dreadfort.”

Whatever the matter was, it would have to wait, for cloaks blue, white, and silver streamed into the hall, the numbing cold pursuing them. First to approach was Ludd Whitehill, a smug smirk lining his lips. Standing next to him were two older men; one was tall and thin with nary a hair on his head, and a thin beard resting on what little chin he possessed, while the second man was large and broad-shouldered, his jaw protruding from his bearded face in such a fashion as to mask his lack of a chin. 

“What’d I tell you?” Ludd said as he gave a mocking look about the hall. “Just what bloody craftsman makes a castle out of fucking wood?”

“Fine pile of timbers,” came a voice from behind him. It belonged to a lanky man wearing a blue cloak emblazoned with the twin castles, shoulder-length dark hair that flapped about as he looked at the ironwood walls, an equally dark beard stretching across his mouth. Next to him stood a clean-shaven Frey with flowing hair and spots of freckles, who chuckled wickedly at the first man’s comment. “Really ought to watch your step in here; seems all too simple for a single spark to inflame the forest.”

Ethan looked at his guests, unamused. “Lord Whitehill must not have spoken of his earlier visit, for we’ve already treaded the territory of making a mockery of where he steps.”

Ludd glared contemptuously at Ethan before turning his gaze back to the Freys next to him. “You see this? Absolutely no fucking respect for a lord. Would Lord Bolton care for such an insolent whelp to control the ironwood?”

“We’ll get to that, Lord Whitehill,” said the tall, bald man, never taking his eyes off Ethan. “Lord Forrester? It’s my pleasure to be a guest here. Ser Aenys Frey, son of Lord Walder,” and he bowed.

Elissa nearly laughed out loud at the name, for she’d never heard of a soul in all the Seven Kingdoms named after King Aenys. More’s the pity, she thought, for he was hardly as bad a king as the songs would have one believe. _Certainly better than who came after._

Gesturing to the husky man standing next to him, he said, “And this is my brother, Ser Hosteen.” Hosteen Frey glared at Ethan before slowly taking a knee, his jawed face locked onto the young lord. 

“It seems you’ve brought your entire family, ser,” said Elissa as she looked upon the gathered Freys. 

Aenys smiled and nodded, “”Tis but a few of us, Lady Forrester. The Twins do get...rather crowded.”

“Mayhaps it’d be best to loosen some of that weight,” said Hosteen, his face fixed in a constant frown. 

Taking a foot back so the other Freys could be easily seen, he started making introductions. “This is my grandson, Robert.” A sour-faced boy, young but easily taller than Ethan, silently glared at the young lord. “Ryella, Hosteen’s granddaughter,” He beckoned to a small girl, brown hair tied delicately into braids. “And their cousin, Zia, our brother Jared’s granddaughter.” Next to Ryella stood a taller girl, dark haired and attractive in the face but for the lack of chin, and sporting a bored expression that cut past everyone in the hall.

Elissa took a moment to look over the younger Freys before extending her arm towards the dais where her children sat. “Talia and Ryon,” she said curtly. Neither looked like they wanted the attention. _Not that I blame you._

By the hearth, the long-haired Freys looked over the great painting. 

“Seems you’re missing a few,” said the bearded one before he turned back to the dais. “Runaways?”

At that moment, Elissa wished to ask for Alanna’s sword so that she may have painted the wall red with the bastard’s blood, but held her tongue.

“Asher and Mira are currently busy elsewhere,” started Ethan. “Rodrik…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

“You bastards murdered him!” All turned to look at the dais, where Ryon was now standing. His voice, so soft and sweet normally, was now a fever pitch. “Him and father both!”

Talia pulled Ryon back to his seat, but it was too late. Aenys and Hosteen looked upon the child with seething expressions, while the bearded Frey looked at him with malice in his eyes and mock surprise on his face.

“Care to repeat that, boy? You see, I’m not quite used to those speaking to me out of turn,” he said. “Though come to think of it, I do find your father’s face quite familiar.” He looked at the painting again, and a smile spread across his lips. “Yes, indeed. I knew I’d seen that face somewhere before.”

Elissa moved to speak, but was cut off by another of her children.

“State your name, Frey,” called Talia. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

The freckled Frey crossed his arms as he and the other man looked upon Talia. “You let the children talk to your guests that way? Are you lord or is she?”

“My sister asked you a question, ser. Kindly answer it,” came Ethan’s reply, swift and firm.

Aenys shook his head at the Freys behind him before turning back to Ethan, all smiles once more. “Apologies, my lord. These are our cousins; Drevyn,” he gestured to the bearded Frey. “And Aerion.” The freckled Frey scoffed as his name was spoken. “My aunt Sylvina’s great-grandsons. They don’t get out much, I’m afraid.”

Drevyn Frey quietly chuckled at his cousin’s words as the two men made their way back to their family’s side.

“What are you fucking apologizing for, Aenys?” Ludd demanded. “It’s this little shit who should be taught some fucking manners!” He pointed angrily to Ryon, who glared at the Lord of Highpoint from under his brow.

“My brother is merely upset at recent events,” said Ethan as he shot a quick glance at Ryon. “You can hardly expect otherwise. He truly means no disrespect, and Lord Whitehill would do well to remember that.”

Ludd began to speak, but Aenys jumped in front of him. “Let us start fresh then, shall we? Lord Whitehill spoke of his earlier visit, and claims he was denied justice for his slain kin. What is your stance on the matter, Lord Forrester?”

Clasping his hands, Ethan said, “I’ll tell you what I told Lord Whitehill earlier; I know not of such murders committed by those in my house, only of those wearing his colors.”

“Horseshit! Your savages butchered my nephew and I’ll have their fucking heads if I have to burn down this bloody sty to find them!” Ludd’s face went pink, and he looked as if he’d lunge at Ethan were it not for Duncan and Royland standing before him, hands on their swords. Alanna’s hand moved to her hilt as her green eyes cut through Ludd.

Crossing his arms, Aenys said, “I assume you can prove your claims, Lord Forrester?”

Ethan nodded to Duncan, who said, “My good-sister and her daughter can attest that men wearing the colors of House Whitehill murdered our kin, and if not for those ‘savages’, you lot would’ve run wild on them, too.”

“And who are you exactly, friend?” asked Hosteen, cocking an eye at the castellan. “Since we’re all demanding names, how ‘bout you tell us yours?”

“Duncan Tuttle,” he replied. “Castellan of Ironrath.”

“Tuttle?” Hosteen looked as if he’d burst into laughter. “That’s not a house I’ve ever heard of.”

Ethan glared down at Hosteen. “You have a problem with the man’s name, ser? He is my castellan; does it matter what his name is?”

“He’s an upjumped pig farmer. Nothing more,” said Ludd, as condescending as he could possibly sound.

“If you wish, ser, we could arrange to ask Duncan’s family of what transpired in the village,” said Royland. Elissa was surprised at his solidarity with the castellan, when normally they were as different as night and day. “They happen to be here, and I imagine they'd be more than happy to…”

“That won’t be necessary. We’ve no desire to hear how a lord should conduct his business from a few simple farmers,” said Hosteen. 

“And if they’re this one’s kin,” said Robert, the Frey boy. “There’s no telling what kinda lies they’d speak.”

Aenys exchanged a glance with Ethan. “It seems we’re at an impasse, ser,” said the young lord. “We have witnesses who’d gladly testify as to what Lord Whitehill’s men did, but you do not wish to hear them.”

“A pity,” said Aenys. “I was so hoping we’d come to a mutual understanding. Mayhaps when we see Lord Bolton again, we’ll have to tell him that House Whitehill should have complete control of the ironwood trade.” Ludd smiled widely as Aenys spoke.

Elissa’s heart raced as she heard the word, and quickly thought of a response that wouldn’t sound disrespectful. “That would be most unwise, ser. The Whitehills have nought the craftsmen nor the knowledge to provide the crown with quality ironwood.”

Before Ludd could open his mouth again, Ethan spoke up. “Which do you think Lord Bolton prefers? Ironwood for the next five years or for the next fifty generations? We’re as good as our word, ser.”

“Just look at their sigil, ser!” Duncan pointed to the hill and stars emblazoned on Ludd’s armor. “Do you wish to buy ironwood from a house that takes pride in flying a barren hill on their banners?”

“If you desire clearcutting with shit quality, you can buy endless stock from the Whitehills,” Alanna spoke, and Ludd’s face flushed pink just as readily as it had that morning. “But if it’s a long, fruitful supply of high-end shields and spears you seek, you’ll find no better than from the craftsmen of House Forrester.”

Aenys and Hosteen looked at each other; it was difficult for Elissa to read Aenys, for the man’s face hid all emotion. Hosteen was far easier, his scowling visage burning bright enough to let a blind man know of his intentions.

“So you say,” said Aenys at last. “Why not put that to a vote? I trust the men here all use ironwood in their armaments?” He gestured to the soldiers standing guard in the hall.

“Of course,” said Alanna, and she beckoned for one of the men to step forward. 

The green-cloaked soldier extended his spear towards Aenys, who quickly grabbed it and looked it over, feeling every groove on the ironwood shaft. “Most curious. Very well crafted, nary a blemish here at all,” and he threw the spear into Hosteen’s hands, who felt it over with far more haste.

“You can’t honestly buy this shit!” exclaimed Ludd, stammering to get the words out.

“Don’t know, Lord Whitehill,” said Hosteen as he felt the spear’s grooves. “This is some fine work if I do say so.”

Aenys extended his hand towards Ludd. “Why not compare the two?” 

Ludd huffed and sighed before unsheathing his sword and handing it hilt-first to Aenys, who looked it over with the same cold eyes as he did the spear. 

“Now you see here, Ludd?” He raised the hilt up to Ludd’s eyes. “That’s a crack there! And here,” he pointed to another spot. “It just feels uneven, as if I could swing this and the blade would fly clean off.” He shoved the sword back into Ludd’s hands, leaving the Lord of Highpoint staring aimlessly at the floor. Aenys turned back to Ethan. “I’m quite impressed, my lord. Let’s have another test, shall we?”

The Forrester soldier readied his shield and presented it to Aenys, who gestured for Drevyn to take a closer look.

“None can match our craftsmanship,” said Ethan, a smile slowly starting to form.

Aenys nodded slowly as he felt the ironwood. “Very smooth, even all around.”

“Useless if it won’t protect you in a fight though,” said Drevyn, and with one quick motion, he unsheathed his dagger and drove it into the shield with as much force as he could bring. The soldier holding the shield nearly fell to the carpet as Drevyn’s blade pierced through the piece of ironwood, but the dagger could scarcely tear through the shield’s edge before Drevyn pulled it out in a violent motion. “Not half bad,” he said while boredly eying the shield.

“Care to test Lord Whitehill’s shields?” asked Elissa, eager at the thought of a Frey blade slashing open a Whitehill. 

Aenys and Hosteen both curiously looked at Ludd, who averted his eyes; Drevyn, his eyes completely hollow, ran a finger across his dagger. The sharp edge seemed to glisten in the torchlight.

“That...shan’t be necessary, I think,” said Ludd apprehensively. “But you can’t take the words of a bunch of fucking traitors! They’ll stab you in the back with those spears they boast of the first bloody chance they get!”

“A fair point, my lord,” said Aenys, his hands on his hips as he looked upon Ethan. “The ironwood quality of House Forrester may be far superior to...certain competitors.” Ludd rolled his eyes at the Frey’s words. “But your loyalties seem so fickle. How may we trust your words when you’ll go about murdering those loyal to the crown?”

Ethan jumped up from his seat. “Why not ask Lord Whitehill why he waited so long to show his loyalty? If I’m not mistaken, he sent men south all the same.”

“Better yet,” said Talia icily. “Ask that question to yourselves, Frey.”

Elissa cast a glance at her daughter; the women of the south knew when to speak and when to smile and nod. That her children found such a concept to be abhorrent was both frustrating and comforting.

Hosteen’s eyes flickered to Talia’s, and the two stared silently at one another for an uncomfortably long time.

Aenys’ smile died on his face. “So you say, my lord,” he waved a hand in Ethan’s direction. “But all of us in Houses Frey and Whitehill have sworn fealty to the king, whereas your knees have not bent.” 

Ethan’s face went bright red and his fists clenched. He shared uneasy glances, first with his mother, and then with his siblings.

“Our lord needs the permission of the women and children present,” said Aerion Frey, a smug smirk on his lips. 

“Shut your bloody mouth, Frey,” Alanna’s tone was quiet, yet all in the hall easily heard it.

Ser Aenys took a step back from the dais, half-smiling at the young lord. Closing his eyes, Ethan got to one knee and said, “House Forrester pledges fealty to the one true king.”

_And all in the North know his name._

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, my lord?” asked Hosteen, his tone laced with mocking condescension.

“One true king, you say?” Drevyn gave a quizzical tilt of his head. “Tell me true; is he the one with a wolf stitched where his head used to be?”

Dark laughter rose up from the gathered Frey-Whitehill host. Elissa closed her eyes and saw a most familiar sight; Brierglen burning, and the screams of the damned within. She had not seen the flames, but the embers still burned brightly in her eyes.

“Well, my lord, I’m so happy we came to an understanding.” Aenys paced about the carpet as he took in the carvings on the walls. “I’ve no doubt that my father and Lord Bolton both will be pleased to hear it, as will the king.” He stopped and raised a hand to what little chin he had. “But trust is a very rare commodity these days, and I feel it would be in everyone’s best interests if both Houses Forrester and Whitehill split the ironwood trade.”

Ethan collapsed in his throne, and began grinding his teeth.

“And what of my bloody justice?” demanded Ludd Whitehill.

“Clearly, it’s not to be found here,” said Hosteen, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got men looking into the matter, yes?”

“Well, of course, but…”

“Then I believe this will have to suffice,” said Aenys with a flick of his hand. In the distance, Elissa heard the sounds of the portcullis raising and heavy footfalls behind the great doors, and her heart sped up several beats. “In the meantime, I think we can agree it would all be best if our houses kept a close watch here. Ten men from each house should be sufficient to hold the peace, don’t you agree, Lord Whitehill?”

Ethan stood up and jumped down from the dais, coming face to face with Aenys Frey. Though the chinless man was taller than Ethan, the young lord did not back down from the challenge. “These are our lands, ser, and the Whitehills have ravaged it enough!”

“The men of Ironrath won’t abide while they think to make themselves at home!” shouted Elissa, and in that moment the great doors to the hall opened, and she saw more blue cloaks flapping in the wind.

“Too late for that, my lady,” said Hosteen, a grin working its way across his lips. “You lot let them freeze out in the woods, and they’re quite eager to get warm.”

An uneasy silence hung over the hall; Forresters readied their swords and spears as the Freys and Whitehills put their hands to their hilts. The soldiers entering the hall strode in cautiously, eying the Forrester guards all around them. Talia and Ryon jumped from their seats and off the dais, standing side by side Ethan as he glared at the unwanted guests.

“My lady, I did not give the order to let those bastards in,” Alanna whispered. 

A million thoughts raced through Elissa’s head as one; when she closed her eyes again, she found herself amidst a savage slaughter, blood pouring from goblets as the tree and sword of their house burned in front of her.

“Our dear cousins here will have command of House Frey’s men,” he said, beckoning to Drevyn and Aerion, who both sported wolf grins. “Do give them the same respect you would a Northern lord.”

“And what of me, grandfather?” a voice came from the back, belonging to young Robert Frey. “Should not one of Lord Walder’s own be given charge?”

Aenys chuckled as he looked back to his sour-faced grandson. “You have a greater purpose than simple command of a garrison, dear boy.” A flash of anger crossed Drevyn’s face at that. “Lord Whitehill, do you have a suitable commander in mind for your men?”

“Indeed I do, ser,” said Ludd, a broad smile stretching in every which way. “My son, Gryff. He shall be back from Harrenhal before long.”

She had met Gryff at Winterfell; the boy was a caustic sort, quick to anger at the lightest jape and always brooding over what slights his family had suffered. His brother Torrhen at least put on airs of civility, even if the hand behind his back held steel.

“Splendid, my lord.” Aenys looked at the Forrester children standing in front of him and nodded. “Yes, very good indeed. But I feel we can all go one step further here.” Beckoning for Robert, Zia, and Ryella Frey to step forward, he continued. “A pact needs a marriage alliance to seal it, and I have the perfect matches in mind.” _By the Seven, no._ Elissa nearly fell back at his words, clutching the table cloth with such force that her nails tore through it. “Lord Forrester, I believe Zia is a terrific choice for yourself.” Zia Frey scoffed at her uncle, before rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “And Robert shall marry Talia, while young Ryon here will take Ryella’s hand.” Robert’s mouth opened in a smile, his teeth ugly and stained, while his cousin Ryella smiled sweetly at Ryon, who did not return the affection.

“I’ll not marry one of the weasels who helped murder my kin!” shouted Talia as her eyes cut into Robert.

Elissa had bit her tongue the entire time, remembering her father’s words as she did. But

if Lord Maxton ever faced such a threat as she, then she knew what his words would be. “My children are not to be your bloody playthings, ser! House Forrester has no need of your kind in our hall!” She had now climbed from the dais and stood by her children, Alanna by her side.

None dared make a move; the Freys and Whitehills all stood, swords at the ready, as the Forrester soldiers pointed their spears at the mass of blue cloaks. Duncan and Royland both looked ready to jump into the melee at a moment’s notice, while Alanna had a foot in front of the other, prepared to shield her lord.

“You mean to turn our house into a mummer’s farce, Ser Aenys,” Ethan finally spoke, raising his voice for all to hear. “I do not consent to your terms, nor will the rest of my family.”

Aenys’ smile dropped and turned into a cold glare. “I wasn’t asking for your consent, my lord. Nor do I need it.”

Hosteen grabbed Talia by the arm and tried to pull her forward; his face going bright red, Ethan reached out a hand and pulled Talia from the husky Frey’s grasp with such force that it nearly sent the larger man stumbling back. As Robert Frey moved to grab Ryon, he was only met with the younger boy’s curses.

“You little shit!” screamed Robert, and he winced in pain from where blood had been drawn on his arm from Ryon’s teeth.

As Robert rounded on Ryon again, he was caught in the face by Ethan’s fist, and the boy fell flat on his back.

It was as if time stood still for a moment; Ethan and Hosteen locked eyes, the Frey seething as he stared down at the young lord. And then, the crackles of the hearth gave way to a terrible roar. Alanna lunged at Hosteen, only for Aerion Frey to knock her to the ground and send her sword flying from her hands. Hosteen grabbed Ethan by his collar and threw him onto the dais. 

“You bloody bastard!” Elissa screamed, and she pulled off the table cloth and found a knife laying amidst the pool of plates and goblets. _I’ll slice your throat open if it’s the only thing more I can do._ Picking up the knife, she made for Hosteen, only to feel a foot reach out; she lost her balance, and was sent sprawling to the carpet, the knife flying from her hand and sliding across the ironwood floor. Looking up, she saw Zia standing over her, a look of pure malice in her eyes. The sounds of steel meeting wood rang out through the hall; as Ser Royland stood locking swords with Ludd, he was kicked in the back of the leg by Drevyn, and a slash to his cheek from Aenys’ sword sent him reeling to the ground, clutching at the bleeding wound in agony. Duncan was quickly disarmed by Hosteen, who proceeded to hit the smaller man in the face with his massive fist enough to draw blood, before swiftly kneeing the castellan in the gut and throwing him to the ground.

“ _Enough!_ ” Aenys screamed over the roar of the melee.

The Forresters, outnumbered as they were, gave as good as they got; there were two dead Freys or Whitehills for every Forrester lying on the now blood-stained carpet. But it was still not good enough, for the combined might of the unwanted guests now held swords and spears on the surviving men, while Aerion held his dagger to Alanna’s throat as she lay on the floor. Elissa felt a shadow wash over her, and looked up to see Talia wrapping her arms around her. _I’m so sorry, sweet thing._ As Elissa tried to stand, she felt a hand rack across her face, and she was sent onto the floor near where Ethan lay, Talia still in her arms; the girl yelled out as they made their ungraceful descent.

“Go! Be with your fucking son!” shouted Drevyn as he stood over them, a sword held tightly in his hand.

Hosteen stood over Ethan’s body; the boy had taken such a fall that he seemed to have no grasp of where he was at that moment. And then, with a nod to his cousin, Hosteen grabbed Ethan by his hair and shoved him onto the ledge of the dais, his other ham-like hand wrapped tightly around the back of Ethan’s neck. Drevyn jumped between Elissa and Talia as they made to move, and grabbed hold of Ethan’s right arm as he tried to swing it. Ryon rushed to his brother’s aid, only for Robert to grab him by the back of his hair and send him to the ground, screaming.

“I so hoped to avoid bloodshed,” said Aenys as he wiped off his sword in Alanna’s hair; the sentinel roared at him as he did so, but did not move for fear of Aerion’s dagger slipping from his grip. “But clearly, you lot don’t quite understand when a generous offer is extended your way. More’s the pity.” He then stood over Elissa, his snarling face a mere shadow as it seemed to block out the torchlight. “Believe me, my lady, the only reason any of you still breathe is because of that ironwood you so proudly boast of. And Lord Bolton wouldn’t wish us to put his bannermen to the sword without his say so, much as you traitors deserve it.”

Elissa looked up at him, at the face of the smirking weasel, and wished more than anything for a blade in her hands.

Hosteen ran a finger over the edge of his sword. “Because your boy thinks he can get away with strikin’ my kin,” and he brought the sword down onto the dais where Ethan’s hand lay. 

The entire world seemed to close in on Elissa, and she could hear nothing but the beat of her heart. She saw her children screaming, Ethan wailing as he took sight of the bloody stump where his hand used to lay, and the shouts of Alanna, Duncan, and Royland as they struggled to break free of their captors. But no sounds could be heard. She screamed, and slowly, the sound came rushing back to her until her screaming was all she heard. She jumped up, nearly bowling over Aenys as she picked up her son and cradled him in her arms; blood spilled all over her green dress until one could’ve mistaken it for a permanent crimson.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” said Aenys as he cast his eyes around the hall.

Hosteen pulled Ryon away from his brother and shoved him into Ludd Whitehill’s grip. “Take the boy as your ward.” Elissa and Talia screamed as Ryon was dragged away, but Aenys and Drevyn stood in front of them, daring either to move. “Ryella,” Hosteen said to his granddaughter. “You’re going with Lord Whitehill back to Highpoint.”

Young Ryella looked aghast at the carnage before her, and tears came to her eyes. But before she could protest, two of Ludd’s men pulled her away. As Ryon screamed and cursed Ludd, the Lord of Highpoint muffled the boy with a gloved hand. Taking one last look at the Forresters, he hissed, “You bloody Forresters brought this all on yourselves.”

Elissa’s vision became blurry, and streams of hot tears pushed past her eyes and ran in rivulets down her face. She looked back down to Ethan, who’s groans were low and distant.

“ _Get the bloody maester!”_ she screamed at no one in particular. 

She saw the Freys take their leave of them, and felt Alanna rush over to her side. As the blood of her son seeped ever more through her dress and clung to her skin, Elissa closed her eyes once more. It was the Mander, not far from Brierglen, and she was a young maiden once more. But in the distance up the river loomed a blizzard that began to blot out the sun. 

And then snow fell all around her, even as the warmth of the sun shone down brightly.

\--

“House Branfield was an old Andal house that swore fealty to the dragons since the days of the Conquest and held that loyalty to the bitter end, even as King Aerys II found his reign crumbling all around him. But such loyalty was not repaid in kind by the Mad King. With the rebels winning battle after battle, Lord Maxton Branfield and his wife, Lady Talia Westbrook, were summoned to King’s Landing to answer for the loyalty of their liege lords, the Merryweathers of Longtable. Lord Owen Merryweather, former Hand of the King to Aerys, found himself stripped of titles and his house attainted of their land when he failed to contain Robert Baratheon’s rebellion. When Lord Maxton and Lady Talia called into question the king’s judgment, Aerys proceeded to burn the two alive. 

Such was not the end of the Branfields’ woes, for in short time, the once proud house was torn asunder and its lands and titles gifted to Ser Rickard Morgryn by King Aerys, a decision that was upheld by King Robert. The fates of the Branfield children, along with the controversial Burning of Brierglen by Westerlands bannermen under the command of Lord Tywin Lannister, will be discussed in greater detail in the chapters concerning the rebellion and its immediate aftermath.”

\--Excerpt from “The Song of the Realm: An Uncensored View of Our True History” from the chapter “Of Loyalties to the Dragons”, by Sister Leilana of the Free Bards

\--

“I sit here and write and write, and I still can’t make sense of any of it. It’s been almost a bloody fortnight since the Green Fork ran red, and yet I doubt even the most patient septas could ever cleanse it. As if the Gods wish to illustrate how low my family can sink, I’m told that not even good-siblings and cousins were spared. Among them are my uncle Simon and his son, Reeve. My wonderful family has decided to hold Reeve hostage to ensure the good behavior of House Chambers, but those bastards didn’t blink at murdering Uncle Simon. They won’t even return his bones to my grandparents. I so wish I was born a Chambers and not a Frey, for it seems like a mark of shame to walk the land with.

That score in Braavos will have to wait; such a shame, for it felt as if they were speaking directly to me with their talk about the end of the great game and the suffering it causes. A pity so few wish to do anything about it. I’m on a ship bound for Gulltown now, and the crashing waves make it difficult to write much of anything. When I arrive at the Inn, Keira wishes to drink until the sun has made two journeys. But what have we to celebrate? 

This will be the last time I write for quite some time, I feel. Should I write further, it’ll be under the sun in the Seven Kingdoms.”

\--Journal entry of Bryden Frey, early 300 AC


End file.
